So she stared at the food in front of her—the food she couldn’t possibly eat—and remembered that spaghetti dinner. It comforted her.
It took eight minutes for her panic to subside; then she started to breathe normally again.
She accepted the fact that she was stuck—for the moment—in a stone closet. That no one was going to notice she was gone.
Sam was off duty until school started back Monday.
Jackie, their housekeeper, would call the police by bedtime, she decided. But they would assume she ran off, because she’d done it before. And also—what happened to Dad. They’d say she went over the edge. That she couldn’t bear losing her other parent.
She fought her rising panic by finding a different image. Something to hope for.
Her mom had said Allie had premonitions, though Allie only called them a hunch. But she’d had powerful ones, all of her life.
They came as colors.
Purple meant something good was going to happen. Green meant someone was about to die. She’d seen green around Mom for eleven days before she died.
She’d seen no green aura for her dad. Maybe because she wasn’t close enough to him to sense it. Maybe because he was right—and she’d only ever imagined these premonitions in the first place.
Dad had always scoffed, in the disapproving voice that cut right through her: That’s BS and you know it! He was a charmer—to everyone but her.
He thought she always did the wrong thing. Like when her mother was first diagnosed, and Allie had given her the Lord of the Rings trilogy instead of hugging her.
Allie had done that because Tolkien always made her feel better. Everybody else just thought it was weird.
’Course, everybody else also said Mom’s best friend Carrie had been an absolute saint to deliver twenty-nine precooked meals after the chemo treatments started. Even though her mom couldn’t eat—and her dad had lost his appetite—so why was all that food going to waste a great thing?
Maybe, Allie thought, no one ever understood anything except their own wants and needs. Well, at least she knew: If Carrie ever got cancer, she’d want ten lasagnas, ten broccoli quiches, and nine Tupperwares full of homemade spaghetti.
All foods Allie would kill for right now. She was starving.
So hungry that she didn’t even notice the noise at the door—right before it burst wide open.
She turned—and terror blossomed in her chest.
The man was wearing a yellow latex mask that entirely covered his head, except for slots exposing his eyes and mouth and ears. It was so tight, and it distorted his features so completely, that she could only think of a giant yellow wax candle—misshapen and melted.
Candlestick Man, she dubbed him.
He reached behind him with hands also covered in tight yellow latex gloves. And forced inside a stumbling boy about Allie’s age. He had a smudge of dirt on his forehead and Harry Potter–style glasses that slid, off-kilter, down his nose. He looked scared half to death.
Allie’s heart froze—and its icy cold stretched deep inside her.
“I brought you a present,” the Candlestick Man said in a distorted, computerized voice. “Misery loves company, right?”
Chapter 16
West 80th Street Between Columbus and Amsterdam
Jackie Meade had worked for the Donovan family for exactly three years, two months, and eleven days.
Not that she was counting. Not when she was basically happy. Not when the job paid so well.
The Donovans had even given her a fancy job title—one that Jackie used on her annual tax return as well as her résumé. They called her their household care professional. Which she thought sounded a whole lot nicer than nanny or cleaning lady or housekeeper.
They’d behaved decently toward her, which was why she’d been sad for Mrs. Donovan in particular. She’d even gone to church thirteen Sundays in a row to pray for divine intercession once Mrs. Donovan had exhausted all available conventional medical treatment. She hadn’t deserved to be sick. Jackie wouldn’t wish all that kind of suffering on anybody—even somebody she didn’t like.
Jackie felt even worse that Allie had gone missing. The girl might not be easy to connect with, but she had been through a lot in the past year. More than any child ought to bear. It was only natural that witnessing another traumatic event might cause her to have a breakdown.
But she also knew: Her every nerve was now tingling with excitement.
Sure, she had plenty of chores still to do. There were two loads of laundry to finish, a dishwasher to run, and assorted items to pick up at the grocery. But now there was the prospect of more.
Police interviews, for sure.
And maybe the commissioner’s lady friend would put her on television. If she did well enough, then Nancy Grace and Anderson Cooper—reporters from the big networks—would come calling.
Someone who worked as a household care professional wasn’t supposed to admit it, but there were only so many times she felt she could unload the dishwasher or make the beds or listen to Allie proclaim that dinner was not edible.
It was important work, taking care of a family. But God—it was boring.
Allie always described things in colorful terms, maintaining that Fridays were purple or that listening to the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth was like watching a confetti of Skittles.
Was it so bad that Jackie craved a splash of red to enliven the beige of her life?
Then she thought about it again.
More than boredom was at stake. When the police and the media invaded this home—as they certainly would, once the investigation unfolded—they wouldn’t be content with what Jackie would tell them. They’d have their own agenda.
They’d be looking for all kinds of secrets. Secret hiding places. Secret motives. Secret regrets.
Jackie would never lie to the police. But there were certain things she thought she’d keep to herself.
She went quickly into Allie’s room. It was a typical teenaged girl’s room—equal parts stuffed animals, trinkets, and technology.
She found the diary that Allie hid under her mattress cover. She stuffed it into her bag.
She found the envelope filled with photos. Those joined the diary, too.
There was an eleven-inch MacBook Air in Allie’s usual hiding spot.
Jackie opened the computer. Loaded Safari. Erased the browser history.
Then clicked on a series of files.
She worked fast—because she knew she didn’t have much time.
One by one, she examined them. Pressed the delete key where required.
She didn’t particularly like being inside Allie’s world. It was like knowing too much. Witnessing too many events. Feeling too much pain.
But it was a trip she had to take. So she went there—and back again.
Taking care to destroy all the souvenirs.
Chapter 17
Near the Parade Route
Cops. Cops swarming everywhere.
But it’s like I’m invisible. They don’t notice me. They look right through me.
Not a bad day’s work. The commissioner has been shot, I’ve brought his daughter someplace safe, and I even happened upon another special prize.
People are always in a rush to move on to the next thing. Not me. Savoring the victory is part of the game.
It takes mere seconds to find online footage from the riot at this afternoon’s balloon inflation. All the news channels have it running on a continuous loop.
The video captures a guy standing near Molly the Mongoose. He’s Mr. Happy Families himself—and he looks like he wants to puke his guts out. Any second, he’ll lean over the huge red puddle stretching in front of him and let loose.
Hello, Breakfast. Hello, Dinner.
Not Hello, Lunch.
’Cause it’s just a guess, but I think he’s the kind of guy who’s so busy he skips it.
Watching him, I can’t blame him for wanting to toss his cookies. For
the better part of an hour, he’s been part of the discussion about family values and the importance of community. How all we need is to take care of one another. Asking, in the words of Rodney King, “Can’t we all get along?”
If only he meant it.
The news footage keeps running, and I listen to the hypocrites keep talking. I hear how these values are reflected in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and the company sponsors they choose to work with. There’s talk of giant balloons and marchers and singers.
People are swarming across Central Park West. Some are angry, fists raised in protest.
Suddenly fires are burning. A shot rings out.
My, what a show!
I gave them all quite the performance, a riveting first act, something that will pack in the audiences for days. Did you see how the top cop crumpled and fell? Did you see the way people descended on him with the force of a human tsunami? He was lucky that he wasn’t trampled to death.
I reach for my cup of coffee and take a sip. Its aroma—and its heat—they comfort me.
I inch closer to the TV screen and watch the strobe effect created by flashing lights. Raindrops are dripping long lines down the camera lens.
I wish I could see more than I do. I’d have liked a close-up view of him, sprawled on the ground. Like a beached seal in a pool of its own blood.
I wish I could know more than I do. Like what he was thinking when he fell. Did he remember his child? Did he think he was dying? Did he worry his secrets would all come out, if he wasn’t around to protect them?
I do my best to imagine it all.
Some of us have the ability to put ourselves in somebody else’s shoes. To try and understand how somebody different from us feels. Get inside their heads.
We don’t need a degree in psychology to do it.
We just have to care.
PART TWO
* * *
THE RANSOM CALL
Fourth Wednesday of November
7 p.m. to 9 p.m.
WJXZ REPORTS
This is WJXZ News with Gwen Allensen reporting from the Upper West Side of Manhattan at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade staging zone, where I’m talking with Art Booker, official spokesman for Macy’s department store. Art, what can you tell us about the latest plans for tomorrow’s parade?
ART: Well, I’ve got some great news for everyone watching. Mayor Kelly and Deputy Police Commissioner Kepler have just informed me that the staging grounds for the parade will soon be reopened to parade workers. This means that overnight, our preparations for all floats and balloons will be under way.
GWEN: This afternoon’s unfortunate events were obviously a real setback to your planning. Fan-favorite balloon Spider-Man was even attacked and seriously damaged. Do you have enough time to complete repairs and resume preparations?
ART: Absolutely. We’re lucky to have the finest, most dedicated volunteers and workers on hand. Each one of them is one hundred percent committed to making tomorrow’s Thanksgiving Day Parade our best one yet. And kids at home shouldn’t worry: I promise you that Spidey will be just fine by tomorrow morning!
Chapter 18
American Museum of Natural History
Seven-oh-eight p.m. Unrelenting rain and gridlock.
What Haddox had thought would be a simple twenty-minute cab ride up the West Side Highway took almost forty. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet, but the city was already in the throes of bottleneck traffic. He immediately regretted his decision not to take the subway, as the bumper-to-bumper taillights, large crushes of people, and frantic atmosphere were enough to drive the pleasant memory of his recently departed pint of Guinness deep into the recesses of his mind.
Horns barked. Sirens blasted. Cab drivers cursed one another in a dozen different foreign languages.
The perpetual motion that was New York City had come to an utter standstill.
And no one was unhappier about that than Haddox. He was the kind of guy who needed to be constantly on the move. Hated the feeling of being trapped. He’d even developed a rule about it: He never made a commitment eight hours, eighteen minutes in advance. That used to be how long he could stay inside a top-security government database unnoticed—and it created a habit that stuck.
So after he used his credentials to get through the security cordon, eventually reaching the NYPD’s makeshift headquarters at the museum, Haddox exploded from the cab, dashed up the stairs so fast he didn’t even get wet from the rain, and found the acting desk clerk right away.
He kept his first request short and to the point.
The officer’s bored gray eyes scarcely acknowledged Haddox. The man checked his ID and authorization, then frowned before tapping a sequence of keys on his keyboard. “Did the video files transfer?” he asked.
Haddox’s phone buzzed four times in succession. “Aye,” he confirmed. “Are they passcode protected?” Not that his skills weren’t up to hacking anything some rank-and-file copper had put on a file, but sometimes the legitimate way was the fastest.
The officer made a face of annoyance, but wrote down a code. Slid it over to Haddox.
Two seconds later, it was in the Irishman’s pocket.
When Haddox didn’t move on, the officer glanced at him like he was about as inconvenient and annoying as a nosebleed. “Is there something else?”
“Funny you should ask.” So Haddox explained that, too.
The officer’s expression turned uncomfortable as he scraped his chair back. “Top-level authorization or not, granting that kind of request could end a career.”
Haddox knew that his request had a stark cruelty about it. But a girl had gone missing, and that meant nothing was off-limits. Not even the commissioner himself. It was the only way to counter the odds.
Because those odds weren’t great. Thousands of children went missing every year in New York City. There were plenty of ways their stories ended, most of them tragic.
“Just routine,” Haddox explained. “Part of the process. Better you give me what I need than call attention to yourself by slowing my investigation down.”
Another hesitation. The officer looked Haddox up and down, assessing. Evaluating.
“And if there are any questions, I promise to leave your name out of it.” Haddox offered the magic words the paper-shuffling bureaucrat was looking for.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree.” The officer’s voice was like gravel, but he yielded to what he determined wasn’t worth arguing over. He picked up his phone and did exactly what Haddox wanted.
Chapter 19
En Route: 350 Riverside Drive, Vidocq Headquarters
The ticking clock read 16 hours, 49 minutes to go. Logan Donovan knew, even though he had handed Allie’s phone over to Eve.
Before he could head uptown to meet with her team—as he decided he must, just to make sure she had everything under control—he initiated a series of briefings. He reviewed protocol with Critical Response Command and his elite Hercules teams and the K-9 units. “I need all of you to inspect your posts now, while there’s still room to maneuver,” he instructed. “We want to identify anything suspicious now, before the crowds arrive.”
Afterward, he didn’t call his department-provided security detail. The men from the day shift were still on the hot seat, playing twenty questions with investigators. There was no reason to call in the night shift early.
Instead, he snuck out of the museum unobserved and called Sam, the part-time driver he had hired for his family six years ago after a political kerfuffle. Donovan had been accused of using city resources for personal use—and even though he received security protection as part of the job, it was questionable whether the city should provide for his family, too. The commissioner had decided it was better to sidestep the issue with private arrangements. Avoid the appearance of impropriety. Sam was former NYPD; Donovan had known him forever; and best of all, Allie liked him.
Sam had been on his way to a Thanksgiving Eve church service, but he ass
ured the commissioner he would pick him up en route. Fourteen minutes later, when Donovan turned onto Eighty-first Street, the first thing he spied was the aging Lincoln Navigator with Sam behind the wheel, eyes closed, resting his bald-as-a-cue-ball head against the doorframe.
“Sam?”
Sam’s eyes flicked open. Despite being well past middle age, he still had a boyish face and gentle brown eyes. Climbing out, he shook Donovan’s hand. Held it. His throat worked a moment, then he managed, “You doing okay, Commish?”
“Yeah, doing okay.”
“You need a shower, Boss.” A deep vertical worry line grooved between Sam’s eyebrows.
“Not to mention a handful of aspirin and a change of clothes. Just get me uptown.”
Sam moved to open the door. Donovan noted that Sam, wearing a suit that was two sizes too big, moved a little stiffly; the damp was probably making his arthritis flare up. But he’d no more take medication to alleviate the pain than he’d alter his ill-fitting suit. Sam took life as it came and bore up. It was a skill Donovan tried to emulate.
He ducked into the backseat of the car and was instantly reminded of Allie. The pocket in front of him was filled with the flotsam of her life: Gum wrappers. Empty pretzel bags. Cookie crumbs. “I need your help, Sam.”
“You name it, Boss,” Sam said agreeably. “You know I’d do anything for Allie.”
“Yeah, let me know if you hear from her. But I need to know: Is this car still radio-equipped?”
Sam shrugged. “Far as I know, it’s rigged out just like the old days, when you drove yourself.” Squeezed behind the steering wheel, eyes ahead, Sam drove as casually as though he were out for a Sunday drive. But in reality, he was weaving in and out between cars, making short work of heavy traffic.
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