by Sean Black
He sighed, rubbed the back of his head, finding stitches. ‘I’ve seen a lot of death.’
‘Death’s inevitable, though, isn’t it?’ Janice said, her voice rising. ‘I’m talking about murder. The animals know they’re about to be killed. When they’re in the trucks, they know. You can see it in their eyes, hear it in the noise they make.’
Lock leaned forward and touched her arm. ‘Janice, I need to ask you a few questions. You don’t have to answer them but I need to ask them all the same.’
‘Gandhi said that you can judge the morality of a nation by how it treats its animals,’ Janice continued, undeterred.
She was rambling now, her mind on a loop, or so it seemed to Lock. She grasped the bars of the bed frame and pulled herself up into a sitting position. He tried to help her but she waved him away.
‘Janice, this is important. I don’t think whoever killed your father did it by accident. What I mean is, the more I’ve thought about it, the more I can’t help feeling that this wasn’t someone trying to assassinate Nicholas Van Straten and getting it wrong. This was someone trying to kill your father and getting it right.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ Janice asked, suddenly focused. ‘We’d already had threats from your side.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Phone calls, letters, saying that if we didn’t stop the protesting we’d be killed.’
‘You tell anyone about this?’
‘And who were we going to tell? The FBI? They were probably the ones doing it.’
‘Come on.’
‘My mom and dad were saving animals twenty years before a bunch of anorexic bimbos took their clothes off for a photo shoot because it was fashionable. I grew up with our phone being tapped and our mail opened. There wasn’t one Christmas went by that I didn’t know what my grandma had gotten me because those assholes opened everything. What’s changed? Apart from the fact that nowadays there’s a hell of a lot more money at stake. For all I know,you could have been the one making those phone calls.’
‘OK, you got me. Must have been the suppressed guilt that got me to risk my ass pulling you out of there,’ Lock fired back, angry now.
Grandma’s presents, gimme a break. Talk about brainwashing. Ma and Pa Stokes had done such a nice job that their only daughter was prepared to die a martyr for the cause, rather than compromise her principles and live, while they’d been only too happy to stand by and watch. And for what? To prove their moral superiority over the rest of us.
‘Thanks for the flowers, but maybe you should go now,’ Janice said, turning away from him.
Lock stood. He took a couple of breaths. ‘OK, I’ll go. But I’ve got one last thing I need to ask you.’
‘Fine, but make it quick, I’m getting tired.’
‘Your father said something to Van Straten when they were outside. Something about him getting his message.’
Janice looked blank. ‘I already told you,we didn’t make threats.’
‘I’m not suggesting it was a threat. But if there’d been some kind of back channel discussions going on—’
‘With Meditech? No way.’
‘So what was the message?’
Janice’s voice shook with emotion. ‘I don’t know. And now I never will. My parents are dead, remember?’
Lock got to his feet, his irritation replaced by remorse. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have . . .’
But her eyes had already closed, and by the time he reached the door she had fallen fast asleep. The uniformed officer checked on her before allowing Lock to leave. She looked up at Lock as she performed a cursory pat-down, although what he would have wanted to remove from Janice’s hospital room was a mystery.
‘Must feel pretty good,’ she said.
‘What must?’
The rookie smiled up at him. ‘Saving someone’s life like that.’
Lock shrugged his shoulders. He hadn’t saved Janice’s life, merely postponed her death. He turned his back on the cop and walked back to the elevator.
Eleven
Brennans Tavern was about as authentically Irish as a bowl of Lucky Charms, but it was dark, which suited Lock fine. Even with the painkillers he’d picked up from the hospital pharmacy taking the edge off his headache, bright light was still making him wince.
Getting out of hospital had proved almost more time consuming than leaving the military, with about as many hours of form filling involved. Dr Robbins had warned him that in his present condition he was a danger not only to himself but also others. He’d declined to tell her that his commanding officer had said the same thing.
Eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom, he took a sip of beer. The label on the painkillers no doubt contained a warning about not taking them with alcohol but his vision was still a little blurred, and who could read that kind of small print in this light anyway?
The door swung open, and in strode Carrie. Seeing her, Lock felt suddenly buoyant. And even more light-headed. Without stopping to look around she made a beeline for him, throwing down her jacket and bag on the table, all business, like they’d never broken up.
‘Tough day?’ Lock asked her.
‘About average.’
‘How’d you pick me out so quick?’
‘Corner table with your back to the wall, a view of the door, and easy access to the back exit. It doesn’t take a genius.’
‘See, you did get something out of dating me after all.’ He stood and pulled out a chair for her.
She pantomimed a curtsy and sat down. ‘You always did have good manners.’
They looked at each other across the table, Lock suddenly wishing that the lighting was better.
‘Glad you made it out in one piece.’
‘Yeah. It was scary for a while there.’
‘It was,’ Lock agreed. The only people who claimed not to be scared in a violent situation were liars and psychopaths. Fear was hard-wired.
‘So how’s my hero?’
‘I’m your hero?’
‘Ryan, let’s not—’
He put up his hand in apology. ‘You’re right. So, let’s see, how am I?’ He took a sip, reflected. ‘I’m sore. If I’d seen it coming . . .’
‘It wouldn’t have been sore?’
Lock wasn’t sure he had the energy to explain. Long ago he’d formed the theory that if you knew you were going to be hurt, if you expected it, the brain could send a signal of anticipation to the body which meant that when pain came it arrived with less of a jolt. Since then, every time he’d gone into a situation the first thing he told himself was,this is going to hurt. Bad. And somehow when he did that and the pain came he was able to manoeuvre beyond it and come out on top.
The shotgun rig had been a sucker punch. But then the world these days was all sucker punches.
‘Ryan? Are you OK?’
‘Sorry.’ He ran his hand across his scalp. ‘I was miles away.’
‘Evidently. Nice hairdo, by the way.’
He smiled. One of the many things he loved about Carrie was her ability to pull him out of what she chose to call his ‘tortured soul’ moments. ‘You like it?’ he asked.
‘ “Like” might be too strong a word. It’s certainly . . . different. Let me get you a drink.’
‘Drinks are on me.’
He flagged down the bartender and ordered Carrie a Stoli rocks with a twist of lime.
‘Nice to see you remembered.’
The way she met his gaze as she said it held more than a hint of promise for later. In his current state, Lock couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. On the one hand he couldn’t think of anything he’d like better than spending the night with Carrie, but on the other he doubted Carrie would be that impressed if he blacked out on top of her.
That, and it was complicated. They’d first gotten involved vowing that their relationship was only a bit of fun, then quickly realized after he’d stayed over at her place every night for two weeks that maybe it was shapin
g up to be more. Finally, they reached a mutual conclusion: right person, wrong time. No big argument. No recriminations. Just a slow realization that it wasn’t going to work out. Lock ached, then threw himself even deeper into his job.
The bartender brought Lock another beer and Carrie her Stoli rocks with a twist. Carrie’s finger circled the rim of her glass. She was thinking about something, Lock could tell.
‘Got some pretty good footage of you saving that girl in the wheelchair.’
‘No.’
‘I haven’t asked you a question yet.’
‘I know what it is, and my answer’s still no.’
Carrie sat back, smiling. ‘Will you give me an interview?’
‘You know what I think about media bullshit. Present company excepted. And you know what I think about guys doing the job who big-time it.’
‘But you saved her life.’
‘It’s what I’m trained to do. It wasn’t bravery, it was reflex. Listen, my job is to be the—’
‘Grey man. I know.’
Carrie had made the mistake of curling up on the couch with Lock one evening to watch the Academy Awards. She’d been treated to a stream of invective about the shortcomings of the various ‘bodyguards’ accompanying the cream of Hollywood up the red carpet. It was also the first time Carrie had heard the expression, presumably picked up from his former British colleagues, ‘thick-necked twats’.
‘Then you knew what I’d say.’
‘Can’t fault a girl for trying, can you?’ She drained her Stoli. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere else?’
Lock closed his eyes, tasting the moment.
‘You OK?’
‘Better than OK. You got some place in mind?’
‘Maybe.’
Over Carrie’s right shoulder, Lock watched a man in his early forties come into the bar. He wore a long raincoat buttoned all the way up but the hair matted to his head indicated that he hadn’t had the additional foresight to carry an umbrella. He scanned the bar quickly, clearly seeking someone out, but his manner was off, too much uncertainty around the edges.
The man stopped at the bar, leaning over to speak briefly to the barman, who nodded in Lock’s direction. As the man headed towards them, Lock edged his chair back a few inches, giving himself the room to be quickly up and on his feet should the need arise.
‘What’s wrong?’ Carrie asked, looking behind her.
The man got within a few feet of them and stopped.
Lock’s focus remained on the man’s hands, waiting for them to move inside his coat. But they didn’t, and when he finally spoke it was with a slightly affected WASPy accent, the words clipped and decisive. ‘Mr Lock?’
Another reporter, no doubt. Lock glared up at the man from his beer. ‘Sorry, but NBC already have me tied up.’
‘You should be so lucky,’ Carrie muttered.
Lock opened his mouth to tell the guy that they were leaving, then stopped as he saw his face up close. He had scaly black bags under his eyes and looked like he was about to burst into tears.
The man’s gaze flitted briefly to Carrie, then back to Lock. ‘Mr Lock,’ he said, his voice breaking, ‘I’m not a reporter. My name’s Richard Hulme. I’m Josh Hulme’s father.’
Twelve
‘How did you find me?’ Lock asked Richard Hulme.
‘One of your friends at Meditech. Tyrone. He gave me a list of places you might be. I think he feels bad about Meditech not being prepared to help out.’
They were alone in a corner booth, Carrie having agreed to catch up with Lock later.
‘You want to tell me what happened?’ Lock asked.
Richard launched into his story, his voice contained and even. What many would have taken as a lack of emotion, Lock recognized as a father doing his best not to unravel; not through any overweening macho pride, but because stoicism on his part might help get his son back in one piece. Lock had been here before, and like anyone who’d dealt with a child abduction the memory had never abated.
However, as Richard began to lay out the sequence of events, as methodically as one might expect from a scientist, Lock became more unsettled. This wasn’t like any other kidnap case he had either been involved in or even heard of.
‘I didn’t even know he was gone until the next morning. I should explain. I was at a conference out of town. I’d called from my hotel but I just assumed that because Josh was in bed . . .’
‘Your wife had turned the phone off?’
Richard swallowed hard. ‘Josh’s mother passed away three years ago. Cancer.’
Lock said nothing. This was a time for analysis, not platitudes. Josh’s mother being dead eliminated scenario one. Something like ninety-five per cent of child abductions were the result of some misguided power play by so-called adults.
‘Your au pair, Natalya, she Eastern European?’
‘Russian to be precise. St Petersburg, I think.’
‘How long’s she been with you?’
‘About four months or so. You don’t think . . .?’
‘It’s possible. Take it from me, the part of the world Natalya’s from, kidnapping is right up there with alcoholism and wife beating when it comes to ways to pass the long winter nights, so I wouldn’t rule it out. The good news is the Russian Mafia doesn’t believe in killing their victims. It tends to damage repeat business.’
‘There’s no way Natalya would be involved.’
‘There never is. Until it happens.’
‘Josh adored her, and it was mutual.’
‘You’re not going to like me for asking you this, but . . .’
The way Richard almost flinched, Lock could tell he knew what was coming.
‘I wasn’t fooling around with Natalya. That’s what you were going to ask me, right?’
‘Listen, no one’s going to judge you if you were. Specially not with your wife having passed away.’
‘The FBI asked me the same thing.’
That caused Lock to raise his hand, palm facing Richard. ‘If the FBI are involved, why are you so keen to talk to me? Why not leave it to them?’ It was the question that had been niggling away at him ever since he’d met Richard.
‘They’re getting nowhere fast. I’m prepared to deal with whoever I can.’ He paused.
‘If there’s something you need to say to me, spit it out.’
‘With Meg gone, Josh is all I have. I need someone who’ll do whatever it takes.’
‘And you thought that would be me?’
‘Yes.’
Lock got up.
‘Where are you going?’ Richard said, getting up too.
‘The FBI are the experts here,’ Lock said, hating himself for offering such a transparent platitude. ‘Let them do their job.’
Richard grabbed at the lapel of his jacket. Lock stared at his hand until he withdrew it.
‘I’m sorry for your loss. I truly am.’
‘You’re speaking like he’s dead already.’
Lock stayed silent.
‘So that’s it? The company won’t help me and neither will you?’
‘What did they say when you spoke to them?’
‘That I wasn’t their problem any more. Neither was Josh. Not quite in those words, but I could tell that’s what they meant.’
‘You want me to talk to them for you?’
Lock noticed Richard’s nails digging into his palms.
‘What I want is to find my son. I don’t care how it gets done.’
‘I can make a few phone calls for you. But beyond that I can’t go. I’m sorry.’
Richard’s face sank. ‘A few phone calls? That’s it? I come and ask for your help and you’ll make a few calls?’
‘Listen, Dr Hulme, I work for Meditech – y’know, the people who don’t want to help you. What makes you think this is my job?’
Richard rubbed at his face. ‘I don’t know. Maybe because risking your life to save that protestor in the wheelchair wasn’t your job either, I thought . . .’
‘Like I said, I’m sorry.’
Richard’s hand trembled as he jabbed an index finger in Lock’s face. ‘You know how this’ll end, and so do I,’ he shouted, drawing looks from the smattering of patrons dotted around the place. Lock pulled him to the door. ‘My son’s going to be sacrificed to those lunatics and all you and Meditech can do is feed me some corporate bullshit.’
Lock dropped his voice to a whisper, hoping that what he was about to say might calm Richard sufficiently that his comments about Meditech were restricted to people in a four-block radius rather than the entire five boroughs. ‘If I thought I was the best person to help you, Dr Hulme, believe me I would. But the fact remains I’m not.’
Richard took a deep breath. ‘You found Greer Price.’
Lock puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold. Richard Hulme had obviously done some digging of his own. ‘Haven’t heard that name in a long time,’ he said.
Greer Price was a four-year-old who had gone missing in a supermarket adjacent to a British military base in Osnabruck, Germany. Despite the fact that there had been at least two dozen shoppers and store employees there at the time, and that Greer’s mother had turned her back for a matter of seconds, there had been no witnesses to the little girl’s disappearance. Lock was a rookie with the Royal Military Police and the trail had been stone cold a full year before he was given it. Richard was right, Lock had solved the case, but he’d never counted it as a career highlight.
‘Greer was dead by the time I found her.’
‘You still found her, though.’
‘For all the good it did.’
‘You brought someone to justice.’
‘I brought someone before the courts, where they were convicted and sentenced. Justice didn’t enter into it.’
For a second, Lock found himself back in the attic of a small insignificant house, owned by an apparently even more insignificant old man. A former accountant, given to ordering everything, even the unimaginable. Lock had spent two days in that attic, searching through box after box filled with clear plastic Ziploc bags. Each bag contained mementoes of an abused child, the bags marked in black ink with the date of their abuse. Greer had been discovered a few days later, buried in the back garden.
