The man in the photograph that the Chicago Police had mislabeled as him was not familiar. At all. Had that man hurt Raleigh? Was this same man the one who wanted to meet him the following day? Was he Raleigh’s former abuser, her killer?
Quickly, Ethan abandoned the phone and raced out of the kitchen to the small, two-piece bathroom in the hall. He dropped to his knees, slid across the tile floor and shoved his face into the open toilet bowl just in time to vomit. The greasy breakfast special that he’d eaten for lunch left a burn in his throat.
Once Ethan was finished, he wiped his watering eyes, flushed the toilet, and washed his hands, lathering the foaming soap between his fingers, and then stroked each finger individually as if milking a cow. He’d just been sick; after talking to some sick freak about his wife, her last day, her being . . . she’s not dead. Ethan cleaned his hands a little longer, pumped more liquid soap into his palm, and repeated the process as if that could clear the conversation from his memory.
When he finally returned to the kitchen, he grabbed Raleigh’s phone and noticed that his hands were a lot calmer now. But then, as he thought back to the conversation, to the photos he’d seen, and remembering the dots he’d connected in this puzzle, his hands began to tremble and he had to put the phone back down on the counter.
He stared at the dates on the napkin once again, waiting for his hands to calm down. Once he felt he wouldn’t drop Raleigh’s phone, he picked it up and went straight to the calendar application. But when he accessed it, he realized that he needed his phone. Not Raleigh’s. Raleigh’s was linked to her gmail account. Ethan needed to move the SIM from her phone to his own phone so that he could connect to the wireless network.
He opened Raleigh’s SIM slot, tapped the tiny card out onto the countertop, and then transferred it to his own phone. When he accessed his calendar application, he watched as the slots filled with notes and appointments and everything else he’d previously input into those dates. Scrolling back to the months leading up to Raleigh’s kidnapping, seven and a half years ago, he saw that the date he’d written down on the napkin had indeed been an important one.
“Jeez,” he said to the empty house.
That entire weekend in March—the one that belonged to the beating with Raleigh’s face blotchy from where she’d been struck by someone else’s hands—had been impossible for him to be involved.
As if Ethan could ever hit his wife. He’d had to defend himself, sure. Some of her “moments” led to bouts of irrational rage, but those had involved Raleigh throwing things at him. Plates, glasses, anything she could get her hands on.
The only force he’d ever used had been to restrain her, reach out and take her in his arms and then squeeze and hold onto her. Tight. He never hit his wife, hell no, not a chance.
And that early date in March, the month before she disappeared, confirmed it. In March, that particular weekend, it had been even more impossible for Ethan to have anything to do with his wife. If Raleigh had experienced another episode of “red rage,” as she’d called them, he hadn’t been around to ease her back into her place of calm, peace.
He’d been out of town.
Out of state.
With his hands trembling again, Ethan reached over the counter and opened one of the drawers. He blindly grabbed a pen, removed the cap, and wrote “Atlanta DC.” The “DC” was an abbreviation for “data center.” As an analyst for Exact Data Systems, Ethan had been involved in all kinds of server upgrades and set ups, whenever the company made changes to its servers and digital storage systems. He’d been away that entire week.
He moved to the next date and found the corresponding entry in his calendar. This date corresponded to the baton, or “priest,” as Klein had called it. That time, Ethan hadn’t been away. But Raleigh had inserted an entry, which said, simply, “Movie + Dinner.”
That sort of entry normally meant it was a girl’s night out. Raleigh and one or more of her female friends, nearly all of whom had stopped talking to Ethan once she was gone. For the longest time, Ethan had assumed their distance boiled down to his inability to keep his emotions in check. But now, after seeing those photos . . . it didn’t take an active imagination to know how someone like Chelsea might react if Raleigh had showed up for “Movie + Dinner” with a split and swollen lip, or a bloody nose, or worse. Just thinking about that baton covered in blood with hair sticking to its sides made him sick to his stomach.
But if he’d been home that night, how had the police seized the baton? Ethan would have noticed the flashing lights and the alarm would have sounded if someone had tried to access the garage out back.
That was when he had an idea. It was an obvious one, too, something he scolded himself for not considering earlier.
Exiting the calendar app, he accessed his contacts and scrolled down to the K listings, narrowing in on the sole entry there for Klein, Mike. As his finger hovered over the “Call” icon, he stopped himself. What if Pry-Jack had been unknowingly installed on his own phone?
“Stop!” He smacked an open palm against his forehead and then walked away from the breakfast bar. “Stop!”
Stepping into the front room, Ethan lowered himself onto a sofa, angry with himself for letting things spiral out of control. He hated that he was now questioning so many things, even the obvious details.
Why would the FBI install Pry-Jack on his damn phone?
He closed his eyes and calmed his breathing. After seven slow breaths, he took his pulse—124 beats per minute—and continued with the calming exercise, alone in his quiet home. After another seven breaths, he took his pulse again—90 beats per minute. Good enough.
Aware that Pry-Jack had not been installed on his phone—he wasn’t like Raleigh, his phone wasn’t a work device, he didn’t leave it lying around on a desk all day, unattended, nobody including the FBI would care what he did on his damn phone—he pressed his finger to the call button for Klein, Mike. The line rang a couple of times before the federal agent’s country singer voice answered with an unimpressed “Klein.”
“It’s just me, I’ve been going through my calendar entries for those dates, and I’m stumped on the one that corresponds with the priest image, the one with the loose hair and blood—”
“Whoa, whoa, Ethan,” Klein said, his voice calm and deliberate. As if he heard this type of frantic worry all the time. “Just slow down.”
Two calming breaths, and then Ethan asked his question. “I know it’s a silly question, but I just have to hear it from you, Agent Klein.”
“Okay.”
“That evidence on the baton—I mean, on the priest, was that confirmed as Raleigh’s blood and hair?” Ethan clenched his eyes shut and massaged a fist into the top of his forehead, right along his hairline.
Silence. Ethan wasn’t sure if that was a good sign—as if Klein hadn’t checked the DNA results—or a bad one—that he had and it wasn’t good. Or maybe, Ethan realized, he’d just insulted the highly tenured federal agent who hadn’t even thought to investigate that.
“I know, it’s silly, but I need to hear it because I was home that night. Raleigh was out, but I was at home, and if the evidence was taken—”
“Ethan, calm down,” Klein said, his voice mildly snappy. “I have the results here.”
Taking a deep breath, Ethan asked, “What does it say?”
“The blood is inconclusive. But the hair is a positive match.”
With his heart pounding in his throat, Ethan asked what that meant.
“If there was a struggle and some other blood got mixed in, it could make the results inconclusive. But the hair . . .” Ethan could almost sense Klein shaking his head.
“Okay, thank you.”
Before Ethan could hang up, he heard Klein clear his throat. “Ethan, is everything okay? It sounds like you’re holding something back.”
Ethan considered his response—tell him about the meeting at John Hancock, or keep it quiet until he knew what it was all about? Because if the
FBI got involved, wouldn’t that hinder Ethan’s own efforts at getting the answer he wanted?
In that moment of brief deliberation, it seemed Klein came to his own conclusion.
“Thanks, Ethan. I have my own answers now.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Morning came quickly for Ethan. The prior night, he hadn’t been able to fall asleep. Truth was, sleep had stopped coming easily ever since his last night with Raleigh, but at least with a pill, it would come. So at eight o’clock the following morning, when he rolled out of bed without the pill ever putting him to sleep, he felt restless. Anxious. Jumpy.
As best as he could, Ethan went about his morning ritual as if he were facing any other day. Quick breakfast—and he had to admit that even his homemade scrambled eggs, toast and sausage couldn’t compare to the dumpy, greasy meal at the diner where Klein had treated him yesterday—and then some hard work with the renovations that were taking far longer than they should. After a rushed second coat of paint, he started pulling up the now-damaged hardwood floor, wondering if he should have done that first. Tired like he was, he didn’t know.
And then the alarm on his phone blurted to life.
Time to shower.
Time to start getting ready.
In the shower, he tried to keep to a quick pace, but it felt like a dream where he was running away from a nightmare and couldn’t go faster than a crawl. Except, in the shower, he was trying to run away from what he feared he might hear. About Raleigh. About what had happened on her last night.
She’s not dead. I know she’s alive.
Once he finished in the shower, he decked himself out in a nice pair of jeans and the long-sleeved shirt that he’d worn during that long hike he’d taken with Raleigh. That image from her phone had been nagging him, one of their last excursions together before she’d had her fall.
The same hike ahead of the date on that photo Klein had shown him yesterday.
If this meet and greet at the John Hancock was a way for him to see Raleigh again, he wanted to make sure he did everything he could to remind her of the good times they’d had, almost as if that could drown out the evil and horrible experiences she’d endured over the course of the past seven and a half years.
She’s not dead.
Instead of driving into Chicago, Ethan opted for the L train. He knew his nerves, combined with the lack of sleep, would distract him, a bad thing given how busy the city streets could get. And so he walked to the nearest L platform and, as he started to cross Clark Street, he realized he’d made the right decision.
Distracted, he hadn’t noticed a Jeep Cherokee approaching. The driver was almost as distracted as he was, but at least the approaching driver hit the horn as he steered his SUV past Ethan.
Close call.
Once Ethan reached the other side of the street, he stared down the length of the road and watched the Cherokee make a left at the next intersection.
Really close call.
Raleigh might not be dead, but if I’m not careful, I might be.
Ethan paid his fare and climbed to the platform, boarded the Brown L train when it arrived, and then transferred to the Red line at Fullerton. From there, it was a few more stops until he reached Clark, resurfacing from the subway station behind a crowd of leather-clad middle-aged women in fashionable heels. His eagerness hurried him past the group of ambitious shoppers, and he walked the rest of the way to the John Hancock at a brisk pace.
His accelerated heartrate drowned out his fatigue.
He felt driven now. Ambitious, even.
Reaching the John Hancock with its black steel beams crisscrossing its glass façade, he glanced down at his watch and saw that he still had forty minutes to burn.
Part of him wanted to take a seat outside the main entrance and watch for Raleigh.
He envisioned her being ushered from a windowless utility van, a canvas hostage bag over her head as the man from yesterday’s jAppe call pushed her forward at gunpoint. But standing outside the building’s doors, watching the traffic on North Michigan Ave, Ethan realized that his assumptions were grossly impossible, a byproduct of his sleep-deprivation. Between the tour busses, police, and pedestrian traffic, the only bags that wouldn’t attract serious attention were the ones with the Macy’s, Victoria’s Secret, and Nike logos on their sides. No canvas hostage bags.
Plus, he knew there was no guarantee that he would even see Raleigh. All the caller had said was that he’d been asking a lot of questions. About his wife. His dead wife.
She’s not dead.
So, knowing that Raleigh likely wouldn’t be showing up, Ethan decided to enter the lobby. He paid the tourist-trap fare and, after waiting in line with a few dozen tourists and sitting through an educational video about the construction of the building, he was riding the elevator up to the observation deck.
With a little more than half an hour left before the scheduled meeting, Ethan wandered around the floor. Multiple times. He watched the faces of the people he passed, most of them so obviously tourists that he felt a tinge of embarrassment for even being there. This wasn’t a place for locals. Wasn’t even a place for hostage negotiations, but then again the world had changed a lot.
Eventually, Ethan settled into the quiet corner that overlooked Lake Michigan to the south—with nothing to see but water, there were fewer tourists on that side of the building. The wind cut across the glass, and Ethan swore he could feel the floor moving underneath his feet, just like the educational movie before his elevator ride said he might.
I need to sleep. But how?
He remembered something Phil had said at Barney’s. About Raleigh being a slut, about the lunch where Oliver Faulk wined and dined a biotech firm, and how Phil had seen Raleigh at a table with another man. Not a colleague, but the kind of man she could stare at with the lost gaze of love in her eyes.
That lunch had happened at the restaurant one floor above this very observation deck.
While staring up at the ceiling, Ethan noticed someone approaching in his peripheral vision. The sight of the other man caught him by surprise; it was another familiar face that reeled him back seven and a half years into the past.
To that night.
Well, hello, medic number two.
As the adrenaline returned, Ethan turned his back to the window.
This man was the one who had suggested that Raleigh should get into the ambulance and make the trip to the hospital, just to be safe since they were already out there. He was younger, a forgettable face that he might have passed on the street a million times. But seeing him now and knowing why he was there, Ethan knew. The power of his subconscious mind reeled him back.
As Medic Two’s nostrils flared and his jaw set, Ethan took a determined step forward, but the other man raised a hand to stop him.
“Might want to reconsider any form of bravado, Ethan.” His voice wasn’t as evil-sounding in person as it had been over the phone. No heavy breathing. In fact, like his face from that night, his voice sounded concerned, empathetic, just like any EMS worker’s would be. “We’re in a public place for a reason. Keep those hands to yourself.”
“Where is she?” He clenched and unclenched his hands, so close to the answers that he could reach out and wrap his fingers around their neck. And yet, Ethan felt so incredibly weak, so scared and desperate that nothing else around him mattered.
The other man—his face had a youthful softness to it, his grey eyes still as penetrating and focused as they’d been while he’d worn a Chicago EMS uniform, his shoulders broad and his stomach mostly flat—stood six inches shorter than Ethan. It would be easy for Ethan to rip his throat out of his neck, kill him before the authorities could ride the elevator up to the 94th floor and taser Ethan to stop.
“Where is she?” Ethan repeated, and that time, he noticed it; the high-pitched sound of a husband who was a sneeze away from falling apart.
Smirking, the younger man shook his head, his eyes never straying from Ethan’s. A
poker player watching for some kind of hint that his enemy might strike. “Your wife is gone, Ethan.”
She’s not dead.
“She’s dead, Ethan.”
The entire world seemed to spiral out of control. “If she’s dead, I want to see her corpse,” Ethan said. As strong as he sounded to his own ears, Ethan could also feel his spirit shattering, his chest imploding under the weight of those words. For some reason, hearing those words in person had more of an impact than over the phone.
“You won’t see her again, Ethan.” Still with that smirk, the poker-player’s attentive stare, the squared shoulders.
“Like I said, if she’s dead—”
“If you want anything from me, you have to take this.”
Ethan looked down and watched the young man slide a piece of notebook paper into his hand. He hadn’t realized until now that his arms, from his shoulders all the way down to his fingertips, had gone completely numb. Reaching into his palm with the other hand, Ethan opened the piece of paper and read the typed note. At first, he didn’t understand what it meant.
SWIFT code. ABA code. Banco Barrington Isla Barbados. 2419940 Inc.
“What is this?” Ethan asked, his throat clenching with each rapid heartbeat.
Still with a sadistic smirk on his face, Medic Two motioned to the paper again. “My generosity for your generosity.”
“What?” Ethan snapped. He could sense his emotions pivoting from devastation to denial, the adrenaline pushing him into the territory of impatience. “What the hell does that mean?”
The other man took a subtle step backwards, adding distance between them. “It means I’ll reward your generosity with some of my own.” Another motion toward the paper in Ethan’s hand, and then Medic Two said, “A quarter of a million dollars, Ethan Vernon. Wired to that bank account.”
Ethan took a step forward, swallowing the distance between them so that he could almost feel the other man’s breath.
The Last Night (The Last Series Book 2) Page 15
