by Meg Gardiner
The rancher looked suspicious but concerned. He was in his late fifties, with a tanned, round face and a solid belly that spoke of a love of good steak. He stared from Kyle to Dustin and back again.
He lowered the shotgun. “My house is beyond that stand of trees at the bottom of the pasture. We can phone the sheriff and County Search and Rescue from there.”
He returned the shotgun to its scabbard beside the saddle. Then he wheeled the horse and spurred it toward the trees at the far edge of the pasture.
Dustin ran after him. He felt Kyle close at his heels.
26
“Double park,” Tina said.
Evan pulled her Mustang to the side of the road. They were on Russian Hill, in a quiet neighborhood of apartment buildings with bay windows and Easter-egg-colored Victorian homes. Monterey pines were a vivid green in the sunset. A cable car passed by at the corner, heading downhill toward Fisherman’s Wharf. In a small park, a group of young men were playing basketball, scrapping and shouting to one another.
Tina jumped out, dodged between parked cars, and ran up the front steps at a small house with brick red trim. Evan put on her flashers and followed.
The porch light was on. Tina’s key jangled as she unlocked the front door. “Jo?”
In the front hall she kicked a pile of mail that had fallen through the slot. She rushed down the front hall, glanced in the living room, turned into the kitchen. “Jo.”
The house was small but exquisite. Evan liked small but exquisite living spaces, tucked away from the road, where you could observe the world without it scrutinizing you back.
The compact living room had a sense of spaciousness. Modern furniture, a Persian rug on sanded hardwood, Japanese wood-block prints on the walls. Gold orchids, throw pillows in red and orange and white, a spread of color like the furnace of a forge.
A table lamp was on in the hall. The place looked exactly like a house that had been locked up while its owner went away for the weekend.
Tina ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Thirty seconds later she ran back down. “She isn’t here.”
“She didn’t go alone,” Evan said. “Would her boyfriend—”
“Gabe.”
“And he . . .”
“He can take care of himself. He’s a PJ with the Air National Guard, for God’s sakes. And Jo can take care of herself. But they went to an abandoned mine, and you said you found a connection to this ex-con . . .”
Evan jammed her hands in her back pockets. “Anybody else she might have contacted?”
“Maybe the guy next door.” Tina locked up and they hurried down the steps. “Ferd keeps an eye on the street. Mainly because he has a major crush on Jo and he’s always hoping to run into her.” She made a face. “Or to get her to diagnose his latest ailment. He’s a bit of a hypochondriac.”
Evan said, “Was that Gabe’s photo in Jo’s office—looked like they were camping in Yosemite?”
Tina led her along the sidewalk. “That’s Daniel. Jo’s husband.”
Evan glanced at her sharply.
“He died three years ago.”
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Medevac helicopter crash. He was an ER doctor. Jo escaped just before it went down.” Tina glanced at her. “She is one lucky cat. But even cats get only so many lives.”
Next door, a redbrick mansion loomed over the street. The plants that lined the walk were sculpted as if by an exacting Brazilian waxer. Statues of Roman gods adorned the balcony, fat cupids and leering goat men. Tina pounded on the door.
The man who answered looked both eager and nervous. “Tina?”
“Ferd, have you heard from Jo today?”
He wore a Compurama T-shirt and had enough gel in his hair to lubricate defibrillator paddles. When Tina mentioned Jo, he stood taller and flushed a deep red.
“No. What’s wrong?”
“She drove to the Sierras to do some work for a case and was supposed to go to Yosemite this afternoon. She hasn’t checked into the hotel.”
He actually clasped his hands and began wringing them. “I don’t know anything about it. But you look so worried. Come in, come in.”
Evan followed Tina inside. The hardwood floor and heavy maroon drapes gave the house a nineteenth-century feel. The staircase was grand, in a Phantom of the Opera way. Gamers’ magazines and a textbook on simian behavior sat on the hall table.
Ferd scratched his chest as though he were breaking out in a rash. “I saw her truck pull away this morning about ten. You can’t reach her at all?”
Evan said, “I think it’s time to take this to another level. We should get somebody looking for Jo.”
Tina nodded, fretful. “I know who to call. She’s an SFPD homicide detective. Her name’s Amy Tang.”
27
The wind whistled through the pines. Lightning flashed, illuminating tree trunks in stark black and white. Downhill a few hundred yards, Jo saw that the forest opened into a clearing.
The thunder rolled. Dustin and Kyle had headed west, downhill, this way. She slowed. She didn’t want to come upon Kyle unaware. She needed to get Dustin away from him—but if she couldn’t find him soon, she would have to give up and get back to the Hummer.
She reached the edge of the trees. In the stormy sunset, she faced a broad meadow. About two hundred yards from the tree line, a barbed-wire fence ran across the ground.
A fence meant private property. It meant somebody owned this land and might be around. Her spirits leapt.
Far across the pasture she heard cattle lowing. A herd of shorthorns was huddled on the distant edge of the pasture, where the forest resumed.
She ran to the fence. Just outside it she saw a crumpled cigarette pack. It was the brand Kyle had pulled from his pocket earlier.
She eked her way through the barbed wire and took off across the meadow.
Dustin and Kyle ran alongside the loping horse. The rancher peppered them with questions.
How many people were trapped? What were their injuries?
“How did you get carjacked?”
“Long story,” Dustin hacked. He could barely keep up.
“We have another few hundred yards to go before we reach the phone. I have time to hear it.”
Kyle was wheezing, going at a hard run in the altitude. “Man, we need your help. The guys who did it have friends out there. They’ll be back.”
“What are you saying?” the rancher said.
“You got more guns at home? Ammo, a rifle, something we can use to protect ourselves? ’Cause these hombres ain’t playing around.”
Dustin understood what Kyle was saying. He wondered why the rancher didn’t just ride ahead and call the cops.
“We’re not going to break into your house and steal your stuff,” he said.
Kyle shot him a pinched look. He rubbed a hand over his chest.
“What?” Dustin said. “I’m too tired to beat around the bush. Mister, we’re in bad trouble. Just gallop on ahead and phone the sheriff.”
The rancher glanced down from beneath his cowboy hat. He seemed to be sizing Dustin up.
“Where exactly is this wrecked Hummer?” he said.
Dustin wanted to kiss him. “In the gorge, off the logging, where it turns to gravel. It’s—”
“Oh my Lord.”
With a hard thud, Kyle fell to the ground.
Dustin turned. “You okay?”
Kyle rolled and grabbed his chest. His face contorted. “I can’t . . .”
The rancher wheeled his horse around. “You all right?”
“Can’t breathe.”
Dustin dropped to one knee at his side. “What’s wrong?”
“Chest. Tight.” He gulped a breath.
The rancher slung a leg over the saddle, climbed down, and knelt next to Kyle at Dustin’s side.
Dustin looked up at the rancher. “I think he’s having a heart attack.”
The man took off his hat. Gravely, he said, “Where’
s the pain?”
“Left arm, my chest. Oh God.” Kyle squeezed his eyes shut.
The rancher eyed him for several long, hard seconds. “We’d better call an ambulance.”
He put his hands on his knee and made to stand. Kyle gripped his sleeve. “Don’t leave me here.”
Dustin said, “Get him on your horse.”
“I have to ride back to the house to call an ambulance.”
“We may not have time for an ambulance to get here. You have a car at your house? A truck? I’ll drive him to the hospital.”
The rancher paused, hesitant, but looking at Dustin’s face, he finally softened.
“Son, on this side of the gorge we’re twenty miles from access to the logging road. You’re right, we need to drive him. Help me lift him into the saddle.”
Dustin slung Kyle’s arm around his shoulder. “We’re going to take care of you, dude. You’re going to be okay.”
The rancher tossed Kyle’s other arm over his shoulder and they carefully lifted him to his feet. The rancher said, “What are your names?”
“I’m Dustin, and this is Kyle.”
“I’m John Yarrow. Let’s get him in the saddle.”
They walked toward the horse. Kyle’s feet twisted and dragged. He gasped for breath. “Hurry.”
“Almost there,” Dustin said.
Kyle glanced up at the horse. He was virtually hanging in the other men’s grasp. Yarrow grabbed him tighter. “I’ll lift you.”
Kyle groaned and pitched forward in pain, his arm slipping from Yarrow’s shoulder. He lurched forward out of Dustin’s grasp.
He took two fast steps ahead of them and reached the horse. He pulled the shotgun from its scabbard on the saddle.
Dustin said, “Kyle?”
Kyle said nothing. He swept the barrel around.
Yarrow leapt for the gun.
28
Haugen pulled the Volvo off the road on a curve with an unobstructed line of sight to the sky south of him. He dialed the satellite phone.
After a few seconds’ delay, it rang. The voice modulator was attached. And this phone connected through an exchange in the UK, so that geo-location would be impossible. Nobody could track him.
Peter Reiniger answered curtly. “You’re not going to get what you want. I don’t deal with extortionists.”
“But you are dealing with me. You’re having this conversation. You answered, you haven’t hung up, and you aren’t going to,” Haugen said. “Keep this up, and your daughter will walk away without a scratch.”
“You won’t let me phone my lawyer or the company’s emergency action team, so how—”
“They don’t need to be involved. Perhaps you were too shocked the first time to understand me.”
“Then explain,” Reiniger said.
“It’s about maximizing returns. It’s about value for money.”
“Put it on the table.”
“If you want your daughter back, you’re going to pay me twenty million dollars. You’re going to transfer it to an account number I will give you.”
The connection crackled. “Twenty million? Are you crazy? I can’t get that money.”
“Stop complaining. You sound like a whiny schoolboy.”
Haugen curbed himself. He had to slow his words, make sure his voice and vocabulary couldn’t tip Reiniger off. He didn’t want anybody to suspect his identity. But this was such a delicious moment that it was nearly impossible to control his . . . venom.
Reiniger loved games. Haugen had discovered this about him. Reiniger liked to test his subordinates, put them through the wringer under the guise of self-enlightenment. But now it was Haugen’s turn to put Reiniger to the test.
“I did not ask if you could get the money. I said if you want to see your daughter alive, you will pay me. You have until six A.M. The clock starts now.”
“Wait—no, you can’t—”
“I can. I am. Do it.”
Reiniger certainly could do it. Haugen knew exactly how he could arrange the payment. He had only one way to secure the funds, and that realization had to be hitting him between the eyes. He knew how to add. He knew where his marbles were.
And Reiniger undoubtedly knew what would happen when he paid. His partners in Reiniger Capital would be unhappy. Their backers would be livid. Peter Reiniger would pay a heavy price for ransoming Autumn. He might lose his company. He might be taken to court, or worse.
Perfect.
“You’re operating in a mental battle space that’s incorrectly configured,” Haugen said. “You still think this is about making sensible business decisions. You think it’s about maintaining your reputation as a hedge fund great white shark.”
“You bastard, that’s not what it’s about.”
“The game board has been upended. When we finish this call, you will phone your partners in Singapore. They’re always ready to make a provision for seamless financial transactions.”
Reiniger was quiet for a long moment. “When do I get my daughter back?”
“When I say.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s no more insane than you staying at the helm of Reiniger Capital when others in your employ take the fall for you.”
He shouldn’t have said that—he realized it as soon as the words slipped from his mouth. But Reiniger should feel worried. He should be concerned about Haugen’s rationality. Let him worry that a madman had his baby girl.
“I’ll make the call,” Reiniger said.
“Good. Besides, why are you worrying? Reiniger Capital insures against kidnap, does it not? Senior executives, spouses, and children.”
Haugen had analyzed this too. Reiniger Capital insured its senior management against kidnapping in the amount of ten million dollars. There was only one problem for Peter Reiniger, capitalist reptile, iguana-in-Armani.
Haugen stared at the sky. The clouds boiled overhead, gray and threatening. The strangled silence on Reiniger’s end, the purity of its helplessness, was sweet.
Reiniger’s voice rose, stress bleeding through. “Just give me my daughter back, you bastard.”
Haugen smiled. It was all so neat. And Reiniger was going to help him tie the bow.
“Now, for part two. The jet.”
The Town Car raced back toward the airport. Peter Reiniger clutched the phone. His chest felt like a band had been placed around it. Kidnap insurance.
This cocksucker on the other end of the line had done his research. Reiniger Capital did insure senior executives and their families against ransom demands.
But children were insured for two million dollars. This bastard wanted twenty.
Reiniger could barely breathe. The animal would kill Autumn’s friends, one by one, and then he would kill Autumn. He had to get the money.
There was only one way to do it: by raiding Reiniger Capital’s cash reserves.
Reiniger Capital had just over a billion dollars in gross assets under management. That money was invested on behalf of the fund’s select group of private clients. It was invested in stocks and bond funds and credit default swaps and collateralized debt obligations. It was 98 percent invested.
But the business kept 2 percent of assets in liquid form—cash—as a reserve. Twenty million.
Reiniger could get it. He could access it instantaneously, day or night.
He would use it to buy Autumn’s freedom.
His chest squeezed. This would cost him dearly. Because raiding the reserve account would have drastic consequences for his fund and investors. It would trigger immediate demands for collateral to secure the depleted balance. He would have to call in payment from his biggest investors to cover the withdrawal.
Painful didn’t cover it. Catastrophic did. His fund was highly leveraged, as were his partners’ investments. They’d have to scramble to meet their obligations to him.
But that was down the line. Right now, what counted was that he could do this. He had the means, at his fingertips, to save his
daughter.
“Tell me where to send the money,” he said.
“That’s better,” the voice said. “That’s a good first step.”
The man gave him an account number. Reiniger scribbled it down.
“What about the jet?” he said.
“A Gulfstream G-Five,” the voice said. “I want it on the runway at Reno airport at six A.M., fully fueled and with a fresh crew, ready to fly.”
“All right.”
“Not any jet—your jet. And I want you there to greet me.”
Jo ran across the field. The grass was beaten down, the earth rocky. In the west, lightning flashed. Cold rain spattered her face and shoulders.
The thunder rolled. At the far side of the pasture, a gate led to a path that headed deep into the trees. She climbed over and kept going.
A deeper thunder cracked the air. She jumped.
The second blast came moments later.
In the pasture, the cattle lowed. Crows cawed overhead and took flight in the stormy dusk. She ducked into the trees, chest pounding.
The gunshots echoed and faded. She forced herself to be still and listen. All she heard was the wind and the nervous shuffling of the cattle in the field.
Two shots. She was sure. From a big gun. She couldn’t tell how far away.
She ducked deeper into the trees and then, slowly, warily, began to parallel the trail. She felt as spooked as a cat. The rain pattered harder. Lightning in the clouds bleached the scene ahead. She stopped.
Though she was still deep in the trees, she could see it. Barely. The wind slapped her in the face. Heart drumming, she edged her way toward the trail. Another flash of lightning etched the view. Just for a moment—white, blue scale, dark.
Two people lay on the trail.
One lay faceup, arms thrown wide—a big man in a down vest and cowboy boots. The second lay a few feet beyond him, facedown, as if he’d been flung to the ground with violent force. Jo recognized his USF sweatshirt. It was Dustin.
The thunder fell across the hillside like rocks in an oil barrel.
Jo stood frozen, looking at the men. Looking around the trail, the trees, trying to see where Kyle was.
