59
Looking left, then right, I surveyed the room, satisfied that no one was in sight.
Through the cavernous shadowed room slowly, cautiously, footsteps soft. I was afraid I might trip over something. But as my eyes adjusted, I was able to zigzag without tipping over a vase or a wine-glass.
Past the staircase landing, then into the hallway that led to the side entrance, the bathroom, the manager's office. Three identical wooden doors off the hall: dark-stained, five horizontal raised panels. All with black iron knobs and locksets that opened with the same skeleton key, Paul had said. First was the bathroom, the next two unmarked, the fourth had a small brass plaque that said MANAGER.
Just as Paul had promised, a legal bookcase stood outside his office door. Squat, dark-stained quarter-sawn oak, glass-fronted. The sort of gloomy semiantique furniture you might find in the courthouse office of a public defender in a small town in upstate New York.
On top of the bookcase, a brown ceramic lamp. I lifted it, spotted the skeleton key.
The manager's office door was locked, but the old key fit snugly in the lock. It turned with a satisfying click.
I pulled the revolver from my belt, held it in my right hand as I turned the knob and opened the door with my left.
The room was small, windowless, absolutely dark. It smelled of old wood and damp paper. I pocketed the skeleton key, then shut the door behind me.
I paused for a moment, considering whether to lock the door or not. Was it more important to keep the bad guys out or be able to make a quick escape? Impossible to know.
I decided not to lock it.
Then I pulled out Buck's tactical flashlight, pressed the tailcap switch to pulse the beam on for a second. In one freeze-frame I could make out a small, rolltop desk, stored its location in my memory. On top of it, an Apple iMac computer, the one-piece model with the flat screen and spherical base that was popular a few years ago.
I had an Apple computer at home. When you pressed the power switch, it chimed like the opening chord of a Beethoven symphony. Unless the volume was turned down. But you didn't know until it was too late.
Even turning it on was a risk, but wasn't everything just then? I found the power button by feel on the back side of the base and pressed it.
In a few seconds it chimed. Loud.
I sat in an old rolling office chair and watched the screen light up and come to life, listening for footfalls in the hall.
And suddenly I changed my mind, got up, and locked the door. At least if someone came by to investigate, I'd hear the doorknob rattle and have just enough time to take aim.
The screen flashed the Apple logo. Its hard drive crunched and crunched, and I waited. It seemed to take forever. If Paul had installed a password to keep out unauthorized users, he hadn't bothered to mention it.
But no, a swirly blue pattern came right up. A row of icons on the right: Internet Explorer and the Safari browser. I double-clicked Safari and waited for it to load.
And waited.
Jesus, I thought, this is slow.
For God's sake, hurry. I found myself talking to the computer, all the while listening for footsteps, knowing that at any minute I might be discovered.
But all I got was a big white box, a blank screen.
Then a few lines of text, not what I wanted to see:
YOU ARE NOT CONNECTED TO THE INTERNET.
Safari can't open the page http://www.google.com/
because your computer isn't connected to the Internet.
I quit Safari and reloaded it, and got the same error message. I clicked on the "Network Diagnostics" button and got a pane with a row of red dots and more dismaying news:
Built-in Ethernet-failed
Internet-failed
Either the modem was down or the satellite Internet connection wasn't working.
Shit.
Switching on the flashlight, I traced the modem cable to a closet. The door was unlocked, and the modem was right inside, bracketed to the wall.
Its power light was on, but the receiver light was off. That told me it wasn't getting any satellite signal. So I did what we've all learned to do in this age of balky technology equipment: I shut the modem down, waited a few seconds, then powered it back up.
No change. Nothing different.
The problem wasn't with the modem or the computer. Someone had cut off Internet access. There was no way to e-mail out.
Or wire money out, either.
60
That was the puzzling thing.
It could hardly be a coincidence that the Internet connection was down. Russell's men must have done something. After all, once they'd grabbed the sat phone, the only way for their hostages to transmit a distress message was via the Internet.
Yet without it, there'd be no half-billion-dollar ransom. So barring some accident during the takeover, they must have dismantled it. Not in here, though, or I'd have seen it. Somewhere outside.
I had to get out there and try to restore the link.
The summer after I'd got out of Glenview and before I joined the National Guard, I'd gotten a job as a cable TV installer. Before the summer was over I quit, but not before I'd acquired a few useless skills, like how to splice coaxial cable.
Maybe not so useless.
But if the line had been cut, it would take me a long time to repair it without the right tools-a crimper and some connectors and other parts that I doubted Peter the handyman kept around. When the satellite went down, they probably called the satellite company. Chances were, Peter didn't do those repairs himself. That was a fairly specialized skill.
I waited at the door, didn't hear anyone walking by. Holding the Ruger in my right hand, the key in my left, I unlocked the door, pushed it open a few inches, looked out.
No one in the hall that I could see.
As I crept along the dark hall, I glanced out a window. No one out there. Maybe Wayne was still trudging through the forest, looking for Buck. Maybe he'd gotten caught in the underbrush.
I kept looking, trying to locate the satellite dish. I vaguely remembered seeing one somewhere behind the lodge, mounted on top of an outbuilding. Which made sense: The dish didn't fit in with the rustic dйcor.
Sure enough, it was where I remembered: on top of a shed about two hundred feet from the lodge. The cable that ran from the lodge to the dish would be buried, of course. If it had been cut, there were only two places it could have been done: at the shed, or on the exterior of the lodge.
Gently nudging the screen door open, I stepped out onto the soft earth, then pushed the door closed behind me so it wouldn't slam. The pneumatic closer hissed in annoyance. Pine needles crunched underfoot. I inhaled the delicious cool air. It smelled of salt water and pine. It was a relief.
For a moment, I allowed myself to enjoy the illusion of freedom.
But of course I wasn't free. Not as long as Ali and all the others were trapped inside.
Just keep going, I told myself. Don't overthink.
Self-doubt could be crippling.
I walked slowly along the log siding, looking for a cable stapled to the concrete foundation. The wall outside Paul's office was the most logical place to find it. I couldn't risk switching on the flashlight; fortunately, the moon was bright.
In a few minutes I found it: a loop of cable sprouting from the concrete, a few inches above the ground.
One end of the cable dangling loose.
It had been unscrewed from its connector. That was how they'd cut off Internet access. Quick and easy. Above all, easy to screw back in when they were ready to use it.
Except for one little thing.
The connector was missing.
A little piece of precision-machined, nickel-plated brass. An F-81 barrel connector, it was called. Used to join two pieces of coaxial cable. I'd spent much of that summer fumbling with the damned things, losing them in people's basements and on their lawns.
I quickly searched the ground, just to be sur
e, but I didn't need to. I knew what Russell had done. Simple and clever. He'd removed that tiny, but crucial piece, to make sure no one could get on the Internet to send out an SOS.
I was impressed by Russell's thoroughness.
It also gave me an idea.
I raced over to the generator shed, where the satellite dish was bolted to the roof. At the back of the small, shingled building, I found where the cable came out of the ground and ran up the outside wall to the dish.
Kneeling, I took out Buck's knife, pressed the trigger button to eject the blade.
With one quick motion, I sliced through the cable.
If I couldn't use the Internet, then neither could Russell. I doubted he or his men knew the first thing about how to splice coaxial cable, which sure wasn't like electrical wire.
I did, though. Those few weeks of tedium suddenly seemed less pointless.
Now I had something he needed.
But as I turned to head down to the shore, I heard a voice.
61
It had come from the front of the lodge.
A shout, quick and sharp: "Stop right there."
Pablo had been spotted; it could be nothing else.
I turned toward the shore, taking long, silent strides along the side of the building.
Down the hill a few hundred feet a bulky silhouette descended the wooden steps of the dock. An arm extended: a weapon.
"I'm not going to tell you again."
Pablo was standing on the beach, hands at his side. He was torquing from one side to the other, as if trying to decide which way to run. Behind him, floating in the water, the black hulk of an inflatable craft moored to the dock.
I watched with a feeling of desperate helplessness. Pablo had volunteered to help, and implicit in that deal was that I'd be his protector.
Some protector.
Wayne wasn't going to shoot the kid, I was certain-not without Russell's approval, anyway. They'd bring him in, interrogate him, force him to tell them how he'd managed to escape. And where I was.
In the meantime, I'd have to grab a boat and summon help, but the time would be even shorter, and the likelihood of successfully rescuing the other hostages would have plummeted.
Would Russell then decide to make a "lesson" out of some lowly lodge staff member? There'd be no reason for him to do it, not after Grogan and Danziger. But with Russell, you never knew.
Wayne descended a few more steps, then stopped, raising his other hand to steady his grip. From here, his gun looked larger, longer than it had before. An optical illusion, maybe.
Pablo gave a high, strangled yelp, his words obliterated by the crash of the surf.
Wayne was much closer to the shore now than to me.
Torn by indecision, I raised my gun, lined up the sights. His body was a distant blur.
No. I couldn't bring myself to fire at Wayne. Besides, at this distance, I had little chance of hitting the target. And once I pulled the trigger, whether I hit him or not, everything would change at once. They'd hear the gunshot, know I was out here.
If I fired, I'd surely miss-and I'd become a fugitive.
I had to help Pablo escape. That was all I could really do now.
So I did the only thing I could think of to distract Wayne, get him to turn around, divert his attention and give Pablo the chance to run. I picked up a rock.
No way would I hit him at this distance: the greatest pitcher in baseball couldn't have beaned the guy from here. But at least the sound of the rock hitting the ground might break his concentration, cause him to turn. That was something.
Pablo raised his hands in surrender, walked slowly toward Wayne, who said something I couldn't hear. Then Pablo did something bizarre: He clapped his hands, then put his arms behind him and clapped again.
What the hell was he doing?
I hurled the rock as hard as I could, and at that precise moment, Wayne fired.
Three shots in quick succession.
He probably never even heard the hollow pock of the rock hitting the wooden step.
I saw the muzzle flash, but the shots were distant, muted pops, masked by the sound of the ocean.
Pablo twisted, jerked forward, crumpled to the ground, a small dark shape on the beach. He lay still, obviously dead. He could have been just another rock, another boulder, a pile of debris.
62
Mom's voice woke me, high and keening, from the kitchen downstairs: "Please! That's enough! That's enough!"
Something hard crashing. My digital clock said two in the morning.
Dad, thundering, "You goddamned bitch."
I lay in bed, not moving, heart racing.
Mom's voice, hysterical: "Get out of here! Get out of the house! Just leave us!"
"I'm not leaving my house, you bitch!"
He'd lost another job. As scary and foul-tempered as he usually was, when he got fired, he drank even more; he hit Mom even more.
Another crash. Something thudded. The whole house seemed to shake.
Silence.
Terrified, I leaped out of bed, vaulted down the stairs to the kitchen. Mom was lying on the floor, unconscious. Eyes closed, twin streams of blood running from her nostrils.
Some protector I was.
"Get up, you bitch!" my dad screamed. "Get the hell up!"
My blood ran cold. He'd gone berserk.
"What'd you do to her?" I shouted.
He saw me, snarled: "Get the hell out of here."
"What did you do to her?" I lunged, hands outspread, shoved him against the stove.
At fifteen, I was as tall as my dad and starting to get some muscles on me, though Dad was still far beefier and more powerful.
For a second, his face went slack in surprise: I'd just done the unthinkable.
Then his face went deep red. He turned, grabbed a cast-iron frying pan from the stovetop, whacked it against the side of my head. I'd backed up out of the way, but not in time. The pan clipped my ear, the pain unbelievable.
I yowled, doubled over, my ear ringing.
"We gonna do this the hard way?" he shouted, and he swung the frying pan again.
This time, instead of backing up, I shot forward, pushed him hard, everything a blur. His sour perspiration smell, his beer breath, the gray-white of his T-shirt spattered with Mom's blood.
A flash of black, the frying pan, as he pulled it back to swing again. Mom's cry: She'd regained consciousness.
Everything was happening at once, and nothing made sense, nothing but the anger inside me that had finally boiled over, the pumping adrenaline that gave me the strength to overpower the monster, to smash him back against the upper kitchen cabinet, the one with the glass windows in it and the neatly stacked dishes. To keep him from hitting me again, to stop him from hitting Mom again.
To be a protector.
The back of his head cracked into the sharp corner, where the wood veneer had peeled off, and he'd never gotten around to repairing it.
He roared, "You son of a bitch, I'm going to kill you!"
But the anger and the adrenaline and all those years of storing it inside made me stronger than he, at least for the moment. And maybe he didn't expect it from me, and maybe he was just too drunk.
My hands clutched the sides of his head, the way you'd hold someone you were about to kiss, only I shoved his head against the corner of the cabinet again, and again, and again.
He bellowed low and deep, like a beast. Blood roared in my ears. Snot ran down my nose. His eyes bulged, looking shocked and disbelieving and-was it possible?-afraid.
I didn't stop. I was in that dark tunnel now, had to keep going. Kept smashing his head back against the sharp corner. Felt something in his skull go soft. I had a fleeting thought, in the red haze of my madness, that it was like a hard acorn squash that had suddenly turned into an overripe zucchini. The awful bellowing finally stopped, but his eyes bulged.
I finally heard my mom's voice shrilling: "Jakey, Jakey, Jakey, stop it!"
I s
topped. Let go. Dad toppled, then slumped to the floor.
I stared.
"Jakey, oh my God, what have you done?"
My legs buckled. An icy coldness in my stomach, icy fingers clutching my bowels, my chest. And at the same time, something else, too.
Relief.
63
I stood in the cool breeze and the dusky moonlight for what felt like a whole minute. It might have been only a few seconds, though: Time had slowed.
Pablo was unarmed, no threat; he'd obeyed orders, had done what he'd been told to do.
He had put his hands up. He'd surrendered. There was no reason to kill him.
Wayne's gun had looked longer because it was longer: He'd screwed on a sound suppressor. Probably so as not to tip off Buck, who he thought was out here.
Grief hollowed me out, and into that hollow place rushed a far more familiar emotion. Loosing the bad wolf, giving in to the rage: There was something strangely comforting about it.
It fueled me, propelled me, focused my mind, sharpened my senses.
I knew now what I had to do.
Wayne lumbered down the dock steps to the beach. Maybe he wanted to make sure Pablo was dead. Maybe he wanted to move the body somewhere, hide it or dispose of it. Or maybe he simply wanted to check the Zodiac to see if it was okay.
The hiss of the pneumatic closer.
I peered around the corner of the building, saw Verne emerge from the side entrance. He took something out of his pocket that glinted. The flick of a butane lighter, a puff of smoke. He held the flame to the bulb end of a glass freebase pipe, sucked in the smoke, held it in his lungs until he coughed it out.
I dropped to my knees, crawled along the front of the lodge. The porch was as long as the building's faзade, raised about five feet above ground level. I moved quietly, staying close to the wooden skirting, struggling to maintain my balance. The slope down to the shore was steep.
It wasn't easy, given the sharp incline from the shore to the lodge. When I reached the wooden walkway that connected the porch to the steps that wound to the pier, I stopped.
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