I answered the call. “This is John.”
“Of course it is,” the Fiend said, his rasp on full display. “How are you, John? How are you feeling? Congratulations. Looks like you’re in the big leagues now.”
My teeth clenched.
“Where is Ruby?” I said.
“Easy, tiger,” said the Fiend. “I still need my proof. I was disappointed the news didn’t showcase my copycat’s handiwork.”
Brenner came over to me, gesturing excitedly for me to keep him talking.
“I have your proof,” I said. “I took video of the body.”
“Good boy. Tell me something. Are you trying to trace this call?”
“Of course not,” I said, hoping the jump of my pulse hadn’t betrayed the lie. “I just want you to release Ruby.”
“Don’t bother trying to trace this. You can’t find me, John.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re a bad liar,” he said. “I thought we worked on that before.”
“Dobson,” I said, remembering my first criminal task.
“Poor fellow,” said the Fiend.
Obviously, he was referring to Dobson.
“What does that mean?” I said, overcome with a sinking feeling.
“Oh, you’ll see.”
“What have you done?”
“Later. What I’d like right now is to see your effort,” he said. “E-mail a copy of the video to [email protected]. Don’t try to trace that, either. Just send the file.”
“Hang on,” I said.
I put the phone on mute.
“He wants me to e-mail him the video of Oliver,” I said to Higgins.
“Do it,” Higgins said.
Brenner said, “We can’t get a trace on this guy. His IP is bouncing all over the place. Are you experiencing any latency on the call?”
“No,” I said. “It’s coming through clear.”
“I don’t know how he’s doing it,” Brenner said, “but the call is definitely going through a proxy server that’s making it impossible to trace.”
“I don’t think you’re going to have better luck with the e-mail address,” I said.
Brenner’s haunted expression seemed to agree.
I e-mailed the video directly from my phone and heard someone talking. Maybe they thought the conversation was over. I turned off the mute button after Brenner had once again silenced the room.
“I sent the video,” I said.
“Good.” Then a pause. Then I heard, “Ohhhh . . . oh, John, lovely work. Was it hard?”
“Was what hard?”
“Taking a man’s life,” the Fiend said. “Did he struggle?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Were his legs kicking? Did he thrash about? He looks so old and frail. Could he put up much of a fight?”
“No,” I said. “He didn’t fight much at all.”
“So, you took out a weakling. Culled the herd, did you?”
“He lived a long time. It was the best of the worst. Now, you promised you’d set Ruby free.”
“Did he froth at the mouth? Did he spit on you as he died?”
I didn’t know how to respond. Did that happen to people who were choked to death? Could they even spit? Was he testing me? I decided he frothed but couldn’t spit. That’s what I told him, anyway.
“Jenna frothed at the mouth, too. Did it make you excited? Are you going to give Ruby a bit of that excitement when you’re reunited?”
“Please,” I said. “Please just let her go.”
“Okay . . . okay. Come and get her, John. She’s at one-fifty-seven Beacon Street in Boston, Apartment Seven-E.”
“You’re just going to let me come and get her?” I said, disbelieving.
“Yes. That was our deal. One murdered person in exchange for one sick wife.”
“I’m coming now.”
“Good. And bring friends if you’d like. I don’t care if an entire armada of police shows up. But I do have one rule. One very specific rule. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is to attempt entry without first getting my permission. If anybody so much as rings the buzzer, she dies. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” I said. “Understood.”
“And, John?”
“Yes?”
“You’re almost a real criminal.”
“What do you mean, almost? I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”
“Yes, you’ve done everything I’ve asked,” the Fiend said, “but I haven’t asked everything you’ll do.”
CHAPTER 62
The apartment, situated in an upscale neighborhood of Boston not far from Kenmore Square, was a nicely maintained five-story brownstone fronted by a convex awning with a green cover. Morning sunshine turned the day warm, triggering the scent of blossoms that sweetened the air. Police barricades sectioned off four surrounding city blocks. Helicopters buzzed the skies with the uneven trajectory of flying insects. Police ordered a mandatory evacuation of all residents living in the two adjacent apartment buildings and those directly across the street. Ambulances and fire trucks were called in to assist with the evacuation effort. Most everyone else, it seemed, went to the rooftops to get a bird’s eye view of all the commotion happening at street level.
Clegg drove us to the site and got me acclimated to the massive and awe-inspiring law enforcement response.
“We’ve got SWAT on the rooftops and snipers in pretty much every place with a clear line of sight for a kill shot,” he said. “We’re using infrared thermography to see what’s happening inside the apartment, but I don’t think we’ve picked up anything yet. He could have Ruby in a back room, out of range for our equipment.”
“What now?” I said.
“Now we wait until he calls.”
“I hate the waiting game.”
“Me too,” Clegg said.
Somebody I didn’t know came over and whispered something I couldn’t hear into Clegg’s ear.
“I’ll be right back,” Clegg said, leaving me to join Higgins and Brenner, who were camped out nearby. They exchanged words, with Clegg nodding a lot, and the next thing I knew, Clegg was vanishing within a cloud of SWAT.
News media had been barred from flying in the restricted airspace, but that didn’t stop them from congregating at every barrier. I might have been at the epicenter of this gargantuan calamity, but to them I remained a person unknown. A stranger among law enforcement, dressed in civilian clothes—grimy and disgusting jeans topped by a ripped and faded blue T-shirt. For the Fiend’s benefit, my appearance was that of a man who had just murdered someone and dumped his body in the woods. Whoever I was, I must have looked to the media like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.
Gant came over to me, Kaminski too, both wanting to know how I was holding up.
“I’m hanging in there,” I said, lying. In truth, besides being filthy, I was exhausted, sick, worried, sick with worry, and horrified by what was taking place. “I’m amazed at the size of this operation,” I added, wanting them to know how much I appreciated all the effort.
“We don’t know what’s going to happen,” Gant said. “All we know is that from this guy, you can expect anything.”
Before I could respond, my cell phone rang.
It took a lot of hushing and gesturing to settle everyone down, but soon enough the only sound that could be heard was the helicopter rotors whipping above my head and the ringing of my phone. I answered the call.
“Hi ya, John. Glad you could make it.” That voice—so familiar and still able to chill my soul.
“Where’s Ruby?” I said, my voice cracking.
“She’s inside. I’m not lying to you.”
“Then let me come in and get her.”
“Well, that’s the problem. You see, the game isn’t over yet. You’ve got one more task to perform. One more test of your criminal skills. Being criminal is not just about getting away with it. You have to be able to get in before you can get away. I should warn you, J
ohn, you can’t keep your greatest fear locked up forever. The time has come to pick it open.”
“Tell me! Tell me what you want!”
“I’m sorry, John, but I need to talk to the person in charge. Right now. Do it, now.”
Reluctantly, I handed the phone to Higgins. He put the phone to his ear. It took about five seconds for Higgins to develop the look of a seasick mariner. Twenty seconds and I thought he might need oxygen. Forty and he nodded dully. Sixty and he handed the phone back to me, his color nearly gone. There was nobody on the line.
“What’s going on?” I asked him. “What’s happening?”
“Watch,” Higgins said, pointing to the windows of apartment 7E. The curtains blocking the view into the apartment parted. I saw a figure appear—a man, I believed, though sun and glare kept his identity a mystery.
Higgins picked up his bullhorn. “Hold your fire!” he shouted. “Do not, I repeat, do not open fire!”
Higgins’s command must have been radioed around, because I didn’t hear the click of a chamber being loaded. The window lifted, inch by grueling inch.
Who was opening the window? Where was Ruby? Why had Higgins ordered his task force not to fire? What the hell was going on?
The figure inside the apartment stooped to get low, as if preparing to climb out the window and onto the ledge. And then I realized that was exactly what he was doing. Slowly, methodically, the man slid out through the open window, one leg followed by another, hands next, spreading for leverage, torso bending to make room, head poking out to survey his terrifying surroundings. The ledge had to be no more than a foot and a half wide. The man wore something around his body—a vest of some sort with wires sticking out. Carefully the man unfurled his trembling body, rising slowly into a standing position, knees buckling, back pressed up tight against the brick wall.
Now I could see him clearly. Henry Dobson, shaking, stood on the ledge of the building, wearing a vest strapped with what had to be explosives of some sort. He looked like a suicide bomber.
Dobson tossed something from his hand. Keys, attached to a ring, dropped about seventy feet in a second and clattered on the pavement. Four officers pounced on the keys as if they might get up and run away. Higgins was looking through his binoculars when I heard him say to one of his lieutenants, “There’s a lock on the vest. Just like he said.”
That’s when I knew what was coming next. I knew it without a doubt.
And it all made perfect sense to me.
CHAPTER 63
Chief Higgins pulled me over to Special Agent Brenner. I kept looking for Clegg but couldn’t find him anywhere. I also kept looking up at Dobson, as did everyone else, judging by the collective gasps.
A breeze kicked up, hard enough to ruffle hair and launch tiny dervishes of dust and debris into the air. The gasps from the crowds grew louder when Dobson momentarily lost his balance. He quickly recovered, his arms pressed spread-eagle against the wall. Dobson’s body moved in one giant quiver. Every part of him seemed to be shaking. I was amazed that he didn’t shake himself right off the building’s ledge. I didn’t know what scared him more—the possibility that he could fall or the fact that he was wearing a bomb strapped around his chest.
“Here’s the deal,” Higgins said. “Our guy is watching this nightmare from someplace. He says he’s not anywhere near here, but who knows if that’s true. Says he’s got a camera that can see the ledge and another one inside the apartment and that he’s watching. Apparently, this guy Henry Dobson was taken hostage sometime last night.”
“Anybody even remotely connected to me is a target,” I said.
“What’s Dobson wearing?” Brenner asked. “Do we know anything about the device?”
“I was told the bomb is fifty pounds of a homemade explosive mixed with iron shrapnel. It’s enough to take off the top of the building, that’s for sure. Agent Brenner, I want your people on it. See what you can make of it, and give us your analysis.”
“Of course,” Brenner said. “But did he say what he wants?”
“There’s a switch to deactivate the bomb that’s inaccessible because of a lock he put in front of it.”
You can’t keep your greatest fear locked up forever. It’s time to pick it open, I thought.
My other thought: Computer hackers love picking real locks. It’s all about figuring out how mechanics work, finding the weakness in the design, and exploiting every bit of that vulnerability for fun or for profit. That’s the hacker creed. That was the game I started to play the moment I stole Uretsky’s identity. So it was fitting in this Fiend’s corrupted logic chain that it should be my final test as well.
But this was more than just about lock picking. He wanted me to do it standing on a ledge, looking down at the pavement, facing my greatest fear. This was his ultimate test of my ability and my will.
I was processing all of this when Higgins said to Brenner, “He wants John to go out onto the ledge and pick the lock, then hit the switch to deactivate the bomb. If anybody else goes up there, he says he’ll trigger it remotely.”
“That’ll kill Ruby!” I shouted.
“I think that’s the idea,” Higgins said. “Ruby is tied up in the apartment, at least according to him. If anybody tries to untie her, he’ll blow the bomb. Anybody else goes inside, he’ll blow the bomb.”
My phone buzzed. I lifted it up to read the text message.
Get the keys and get inside, John. You have sixty seconds to make your move.
CHAPTER 64
“Give me the keys!” I screamed to Higgins, showing him my phone. “Give me the keys, dammit. We don’t have time! Now!”
Dobson’s terrified screams rained down from above, mixing with my own. I broke away from Higgins when he nodded, and rushed the police officers that had taken the keys. I grabbed one of the big men by the shoulder, reaching frantically for the keys, trying to force them out of his hand. He knew who I was, but still he looked ready to toss me to the ground.
“Please,” I said. “Please I need those keys.”
Higgins whistled to get his attention.
“Give him the keys,” he said.
Rushing to the front door, I forced my hands to stop shaking long enough to slip the key into the lock. Once inside, I took the stairs three at a time up five flights. I unlocked the door to apartment 7A, and in I went.
I saw Ruby right away. She was lying on the hardwood floor, the ball gag in her mouth secured around her head by leather straps, her arms pulled behind her back, bound with climbing rope. Her legs were tied together at the ankles. Then I saw the video camera attached to a computer—a live broadcast, I presumed. It was set up on the table, the only piece of furniture in an otherwise completely empty two-bedroom condo. I remembered the instructions. If I tried to untie her, the Fiend would see it, and boom would go the dynamite—or homemade explosive, in this case. There were no rules about kissing, though, so I pressed my lips to Ruby’s forehead, overcome with relief that for the moment, she was alive.
No matter what it takes, or how far I have to go, I’m not going to let her die.
“I’ll be right back, baby,” I said. “He’s watching us. If I try to untie you, he’s going to blow the bomb Dobson is wearing. I just have to go out onto that ledge for a second.” I pointed to the window. How nonchalantly I said that! Ah, just a quick little jaunt out on a narrow ledge five stories up, when I got sick to my stomach looking out a window.
Ruby rolled her head from side-to-side in a frenzied motion, screaming through the gag, twisting her body to get free. Of course she didn’t want me to go. Of course she worried that I would fall. I worried the same.
“Trust me,” I said. “I’m going to do it. I’ll be all right.” I kissed her forehead once more, rose from my crouch, and headed for that open window.
CHAPTER 65
My fear hummed hard enough to shake my legs. I walked to the window as though crossing a tightrope, one foot in front of the other. A sense of dread redoubled with
each slow and purposeful step. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of an open window. I forced myself to look all around and saw the scene from an entirely different vantage point. The police looked like specks from up here; the helicopters were distant planets. I heard Higgins call through the bullhorn.
“John! Are you all right?”
Where was Clegg?
I nodded and gave the thumbs-up sign, even though I couldn’t speak. Glancing to my right, I saw Dobson plastered flat against the brick exterior. He had his eyes closed, nostrils flaring, while his cheeks puffed in and out like fireplace bellows. Sweat had darkened his light blue shirt to navy. Every muscle, every limb on his body was trembling wildly.
“Henry,” I said. “It’s me. It’s John.”
Dobson opened his eyes and moaned, “John. Help me. Please. Help me.”
“Henry, I’m going to try.”
The vest was made of a green canvas fabric secured to the body by Velcro straps at the sides. Canvas pockets on both the front and back of the vest held at least a dozen steel pipes with threaded caps at each end. Clear plastic pockets running across the front and back of the vest provided a window into a showcase of nails and ball bearings that would become deadly projectiles upon detonation. Red and white wires were connected to the top of each threaded cap and terminated inside an opaque plastic case, which I assumed hid a button or switch to arm the weapon.
I didn’t know how powerful the blast would be or if the nails and ball bearings stuffed inside the plastic pockets would rip through the windows fast enough and accurately enough to kill Ruby. I didn’t care to find out. The padlock securing access to the plastic case wasn’t an expensive type, but rather something common in the locker room of a local YMCA. Nothing fancy. It should be easy enough to pick for somebody who knew how to pick a lock.
Unfortunately, that somebody wasn’t me.
“Henry,” I said. “I’m told I’ve got to get that lock open, but I don’t have anything to open it with.”
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