Taken

by Robert Crais

  Jon was deciding which drill bit to use when the garage door once more opened, and he closed the case.

  Jon was watching the Explorer back out of the garage when he noticed the clutter people accumulate in their garages was missing. No boxes, bicycles, lawn equipment, or Christmas decorations crowded the walls or hung from the rafters. Jon dialed back through his memory file, and realized the garage at the Indio house was also free of clutter.

  The Explorer led him north past the Thermal airport into Coachella. Jon thought they were returning to the Indio house, but they turned west through La Quinta and Indian Wells, then south into the desert.

  Jon checked his GPS, and saw the highway would track away from the desert communities and into the deep nowhere of the Anza-Borrego Desert, west of the Salton Sea. Traffic thinned, so he dropped farther back until he needed the binos to see the Explorer. They held fast to a steady seventy miles per hour for almost twenty minutes before their brake lights flared. Jon immediately slowed, and glanced at the GPS, expecting to see a road, but saw nothing. He changed from the map to a satellite view, and zoomed the image until he saw a thin filament angled away from the highway. This would be an unpaved county or ranch road.

  The Explorer turned off the highway, and immediately kicked up a plume of dust Jon saw without the binos.

  He said, “Shit.”

  Jon let the gap between them widen. He wasn’t worried about losing the Explorer because its dust trail was so obvious, but following it would be a problem. If he could see the Explorer, the Explorer could see him.

  When he reached the turn, he pulled off the highway, and compared the receding dust trail with the image on his GPS. The few unpaved roads showed as thin gray lines that ran for miles before intersecting another thin line. The Explorer was now on a road that angled away from the highway and would soon join another road that paralleled the highway for miles. This second road then crossed a third road that swept back to the highway. Jon smiled when he saw this, kicked the Rover back onto the highway, and pressed hard on the gas.

  Four-point-six miles later, at one hundred nine miles per hour, Jon turned off the highway onto the third road, far ahead of the Explorer. The dust was well behind him, and angling away. Jon checked his GPS again, and trailed after them slowly. He followed them into the desert for two-point-three miles until their plume vanished, which meant they had stopped.

  Jon stopped the Rover, and searched the tip of the fading plume with his binos until he spotted a glint in the wavery heat. He returned to the nylon bag for a 60x Zeiss spotting scope mounted to a small tripod. The Zeiss had proven ideal for locating shitbirds on the rocky slopes of Afghanistan. He set it on the Rover’s hood, adjusted the focus, and saw the Explorer.

  It was parked on a rise near what appeared to be a low stone wall. Two small figures carried something large into the brush. A few moments later, they returned to the Explorer, and carried another large thing away. Jon got a cold feeling one of these things might be Elvis Cole’s body.

  They made two more trips beyond the walls, then climbed into the Explorer, and left. Jon was torn between following the Explorer or checking for Cole, but there was really only one decision.

  Jon watched until their dust plume faded, then adjusted the Rover’s suspension for uneven terrain and made his way across the desert. He stopped sixty yards from the crumbling walls, got out with his M4, and offed the safety. His scalp prickled like ants were under his skin, and jacked him into full-on combat mode, ready to bust out thirty rounds of 5.56.

  Jon picked his way through the brush until he found the Explorer’s tracks, then followed footprints past the wall to a low wash. Jon knew what he would find even before he reached the erosion cut at the edge of the wash. The angry buzz of fat desert flies and meat-eating hornets told him. The stink of rotten shrimp and organ meat told him the rest.

  The bodies had been dumped into the cut atop each other in a jumble of plastic-wrapped flesh. White powder was liberally sprinkled over the bodies, but did little to help the smell or discourage the flies. They swirled in an angry cloud, and crawled beneath the plastic.

  Jon counted eight, then decided there were nine bodies, both men and women, but could not see them well enough through the plastic to know if Elvis Cole was among them.

  Jon slung the M4, photographed the bodies with his iPhone, then returned to his Rover. He pulled off his sunglasses, rubbed his face, and shouted at the horizon.

  “They’re people, you bastards. Jesus Christ on a jumpstick, they are fuckin’ PEOPLE!”

  He stared toward the cut, stowed the M4, then took off his shirt and tied it over his nose and mouth to keep out the flies.

  Jon returned to the cut, and climbed down among the dead. He peeled back the plastic, looking for Elvis Cole.

  He knew Pike would ask.

  32.

  Joe Pike

  Wander had not returned, and neither had the Explorer. Young moms and dads passed with kids strapped into car seats, and three boys rumbled past on skateboards. Pike wondered if Cole was inside with Ghazi al-Diri, and if everything was going according to plan.

  A woman wearing black utility pants and a black tank top came out of the house next door with a large German shepherd. She had broad shoulders for a small woman, and fit arms, and looked like a commando in all the black, but she didn’t look happy.

  The woman and dog walked past the Jeep like they had done this same walk a thousand times and it held nothing new. The dog pulled at the leash, and the woman told it to stop. She seemed angry, but Pike thought she probably wasn’t. They had walked together a thousand times, and each time the dog pulled, the woman complained, and her arms and face showed the strain. Pike wondered why she didn’t change the pattern. Change one element, and everything changes. All she had to do was talk to the dog.

  Pike’s phone vibrated. He glanced at the incoming number and recognized Stone.

  “Go.”

  “They’re dumping bodies. I followed the Explorer into the desert and saw them. They’re killing people in those houses.”

  Pike studied the house, and wondered if someone was inside dying.

  “Elvis?”

  “No. No, man, I checked. They dumped four today, but I counted nine. It is fuckin’ grotesque.”

  Pike figured they would be Park’s people.

  “Koreans?”

  “That’s what I expected, but no. They’re Indians or Pakistanis. How many fuckin’ people has this guy kidnapped?”

  This surprised Pike. He wondered if they had been held at the house he was watching, or the Mecca house, or another, and how many more were still prisoners.

  “How long have they been dead?”

  “The four today, no more than five or six hours. The others have been there for days.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Inbound now, but the bodies are twenty south of Palm Desert. I fixed a waypoint. What’s happening up there?”

  “Nothing.”

  Stone didn’t comment, which meant Stone didn’t like it. Pike didn’t like it either. Cole was supposed to be in the house, but Wander had not returned to take him back to his car, and no one else had arrived. If they had taken Cole in the Explorer, he now had no backup, and Pike liked that even less.

  Stone read his mind.

  “Y’know, we have no reason to believe he was in that Explorer.”

  “Uh.”

  “But if the Syrian was in Mecca, maybe they dropped off Cole on their way to dump the bodies.”

  Pike thought Stone might be right about the meeting at a secondary location, but there was only one way to find out.

  “I’m going in.”

  “Wait. I’m fifteen out. I’ll make it in twelve.”

  “Not going to wait.”

  Pike put away his phone, then went to the rear bay. He stripped off his sweatshirt, strapped on a ballistic vest, then pulled the sweatshirt over it. He clipped a Kimber .45 semi-auto at the small of his back, and was about
to clip his .357 Python when the dog ran past trailing its leash. Pike stepped to the far side of the Jeep to cover his guns.

  The dog ran directly to its door, and scratched to get in. Pike guessed the woman had grown tired of being pulled. She came along the street a few seconds later, scowling, and shouting at the dog to stop. The dog didn’t stop. Pike turned away when she glanced at the Jeep.

  When the woman and the dog were inside their home, Pike clipped the .357 to his waist, then drove to the house. He got out with a fifteen-pound sledge, and did not bother to knock.

  Pike hit the door square on the deadbolt. The lock crunched into the wood, but the door did not give. Pike swung again, and shattered more wood, but something was blocking the door.

  Pike stood to the side. He listened at the hole, but heard nothing. There were no voices, or movement, or men scrambling for guns.

  Pike ran back to the Jeep, and drove forward until the brush guard pressed the garage door, and the cheap door crumpled into the garage.

  The laundry room door went down to the sledge.

  Pike cleared the house fast, leading with the gun, locked out and good to go. The house was now empty. Pike found no bodies, possessions, food, or clothes. The only remaining evidence that something terrible had happened here were the heavy sheets of plywood covering the windows and doors. This house had been a prison.

  Pike finished, and stood in the living room, breathing. He tried to listen to what the house knew, but heard only the low steady thud of his heart.

  Pike had stood sentry since the gray van delivered Cole to this house, but Cole was now missing.

  His friend had been taken.

  Pike ran back to his Jeep, backed from the garage, and told Jon Stone to meet him in Mecca.

  33.

  Joe Pike

  The house in Mecca contained even less. The plywood had been removed, and the screw holes filled with painter’s putty. No sign remained of Cole or anyone else.

  Stone said, “Now what?”

  “His car.”

  “What?”

  “Can’t leave his car at the Burger King.”

  “I meant where do we go from here?”

  “I know what you meant.”

  They left Pike’s Jeep at the Palm Springs airport. Stone drove them to the Burger King, where Pike picked up Cole’s Corvette. He had a key. They would take the Corvette home, get some sleep, and Stone would drive them back in the morning. They would pick up Pike’s Jeep, and sit on the bodies. If nine bodies had been dumped, there might be a tenth.

  Two hours and forty-six minutes later, Pike rounded the last curve to Elvis Cole’s A-frame, and guided the old Corvette into the carport.

  The house was dark, but Pike knew Cole’s house as well as his own. He turned on the kitchen light, then a table lamp in the living room, then pushed open the glass sliders to Cole’s deck.

  The canyon below was dotted with lights. Some of the houses were so close Pike saw the flickering color of televisions, while others held the sky blue shimmer of pools. Pike liked Cole’s deck. He had helped Cole rebuild it when termites attacked the framing, and helped stain the wood every three years. The night air was chill, and smelled of wild fennel.

  Pike said, “I hear you.”

  The snick-snick-snick of approaching claws, then Cole’s cat bumped against his legs.

  Pike looked down at the cat, and the cat looked up. It was a ragged animal, with pale scars lacing its black face and shredded ears.

  Pike squatted, and ran the flat of his palm from the cat’s lumpy head along the peak of its spine. The cat enjoyed this for a moment, then stepped away. The fur along his spine rippled. His ears folded, then straightened, and his warrior face grew angry.

  Pike said, “He isn’t here.”

  Pike went inside. He found an open can of cat food and a bottle of Abita beer in the fridge. He forked the remains of the can into a clean dish, then put out fresh water, the food, and a saucer of beer.

  The cat stood by the food, but did not eat.

  Pike drank most of the remaining beer, turned on the carport light, and stared at Cole’s car. Filthy. Pike washed his Jeep every day, and waxed it every two months. Cole’s home was neat and orderly, and Cole was fastidiously clean when he cooked, but his car was a mess. Pike did not understand it, though he often wondered if it revealed some truth Pike was unable to understand.

  Pike found a mop bucket and towels in the laundry room, squirted dish soap into the bucket, and took the bucket and towels out to the car. An armada of bugs swirled and spiraled around the carport ceiling light.

  Pike pulled the hose from the side of the house, filled the bucket with sudsy water, then rinsed the car. He began at the nose, rubbing the car with his hand to slough away the dirt. The cat came out to watch. The water splashed his fur with liquid shrapnel, but the cat did not move.

  Pike worked the dirt loose from the hood and sides and tail, then soaked a towel in the soapy water and went over the car again. He rubbed hard, and when the body was clean, he worked on the tires and wheels, then rinsed the body again. He dried the car with the remaining towels, then wiped down the interior.

  When Pike finished, he tried to remember when he had last seen Cole’s car this clean. He couldn’t, and didn’t care. It was clean now. When Cole came back, his car was good to go.

  Pike dumped the bucket and went inside. He stripped off his clothes, put them in the wash with the towels, then showered in the guest room bath. The cat followed him through the house, and back again when he put his clothes in the dryer.

  While the clothes were drying, Pike went upstairs for Cole’s gun-cleaning supplies, and brought them down to the dining table. Cleaning lubricant, cotton patches, a bore brush and cleaning rod, a soft cotton cloth.

  Pike unloaded the pistols, and broke down the Kimber. He could take the Kimber apart and reassemble it blindfolded, in the dark, and under any conditions. He did not have to think about what he was doing. His hands knew the way.

  The cat watched from the far end of the table. Pike pushed cotton patches wet with cleaning lubricant through the barrel and over the frame and slide and the recoil spring assembly and breech face. Pike glanced at the cat as he worked, and noticed the cat wasn’t looking at Pike; it watched the parts as they were brushed and wiped.

  Pike set the recoil spring assembly into the Kimber’s frame, replaced the slide, and fitted the slide lock pin into place. When the Kimber was reassembled, Pike set it aside and worked on the Python. He glanced at the cat again. Its eyes had narrowed into smoldering cuts and its tail flicked like a dangerous snake.

  Pike swabbed lubricant through the Python’s cylinder chambers and barrel, then over the recoil plate and under the cylinder star. He ran the brush through the barrel and chambers, then swabbed the steel clean, but did not look at the gun while he cleaned it. He watched the cat.

  The cat paced at the far end of the table, stalking from one side to the other, its tail snapping violent strikes that stung the air as the fur on its spine rippled.

  Pike reloaded the Kimber. He pushed one fat, golden .45 ACP hollow point after another into the Kimber’s magazine until it was full, then seated it. He rocked the slide to chamber a round, and set the safety.

  The cat came toward him, paced away, then returned. Its dark face was as fierce as a Maori. The fur on its spine was spiked like a Mohawk warrior.

  Pike put the Kimber aside and loaded the Python. He opened the cylinder and slid a long .357 magnum cartridge into a cylinder chamber.

  The cat came closer.

  Pike dropped in a second cartridge, then a third, and now the cat stood only inches away, but it no longer looked at the gun. It stared at Pike, and its molten black face was furious.

  Pike finished loading the Python. Six chambers, six cartridges. He closed the cylinder, but held tight to the pistol, and stared at Cole’s cat. Elvis Cole’s cat.

  The cat licked its feral lips, and made a low growl.

  Pike
nodded.

  “Yes. I’m going to get him.”

  He put the guns in their holsters, drank a bottle of water, then called Jon Stone.

  “Come get me. I’m not waiting until morning.”

  Stone picked him up a few minutes later.

  Jack and Krista:

  seven days after they were taken

  34.

  One day after the beating, Jack opened his eyes, blinked, and looked at her. His pupils were dilated.

  “Whush on TV?”

  “Can you see me? I’m here.”

  His eyes rolled, and came back to her.

  “Nancie. Mommy ish home.”

  Krista touched his lips. A stab of fear arced through her every time he mentioned his aunt.

  “Shh, baby. Don’t talk about Nancie.”

  His eyes rolled again, widened, then closed.

  Jack was stretched out along the wall in their spot beneath their window. The guards had brought Jack back to the room, and placed him by the piss bucket. They had given her ice wrapped in a towel for his head. That was the extent of their aid. Kwan dragged him to their rightful spot under the window. The ice had melted, so she folded the damp towel, and placed it under Jack’s head as a cushion.

  Kwan sat nearby. No one else in the room had approached. As if they feared the guards would give them the same.

  “Talks more. Good.”

  Jack was mostly unconscious yesterday after the beating, and Krista thought he would die. His skin grew pale and clammy, and he would tremble violently between periods of calm. He began mumbling earlier that morning. Krista thought this was a good sign, but didn’t know. Jack was hurt badly. She hoped it was only a concussion, but her head swirled with thoughts of cranial hemorrhages, brain damage, and flat-lined monitors.