by Mark Gimenez
“No. How hard?”
“Like, totally.”
“Then I’ll buy a bunch of radio stations and play only yours.”
“You can’t do that.”
“After the IPO I can. I’m gonna buy the Red Sox for Sam.”
“No, I mean it doesn’t work that way. I’ve got to struggle a long time trying to break in so I’ll have material for my songs.”
“Oh, so that’s how it works.”
“Yeah, see, the Dixie Chicks struggled for like, well, a really long time, and they had to move to Nashville. I guess I’ll have to, too.”
“And leave me? No way, girlfriend. I’ll buy a jet, you can fly to Nashville to record. Or I’ll build you a recording studio here, and they can come to you. And they will.”
“Yeah, right. You know how many great singers are out there totally begging to break into country music?”
“No. How many?”
“Well … a bunch.”
He shook his head. “Odds don’t apply to statistically unique occurrences.”
“Huh?”
“There’s only one Gracie Ann Brice.”
She had looked at him with a strange expression, one he had never before seen on her sweet face; he immediately thought, Cripes, I said something wrong! You bogoid, you never could talk to girls! But she abruptly hugged him and said, “You’re the best father a girl could ever want.” When she pulled back, her big blue eyes were wet. “Thanks for not making fun of my dreams.”
He had cupped her perfect face and said, “Gracie, ill-behaved cretins can thrash your user interface, frag your hardware, unplug your peripherals, uninstall your components—but dreams are proprietary technology.”
“Huh?”
“No one can take your dreams away.”
But he had been wrong. Someone had taken his dream away.
12:09 A.M.
Ben was now sitting at the kitchen table and flipping through the stack of FBI lead sheets. By this time of night, he was usually drunk enough to sleep. He wanted a drink now, just one shot of whiskey. Or two. He could feel its warmth inside him.
But there would not be another drink for him. On the drive from Taos to the Albuquerque airport, alone in the pre-dawn hours, he had made a vow to Gracie, a vow that now required he reach back almost four decades to find the strength to overcome: when they had beaten him at San Bie, he thought of Kate and John and found strength; now, when the cravings came, he thought of Gracie and found the same strength.
He went over to the refrigerator, a commercial-sized one concealed behind wood paneling that matched the cabinetry. Inside he found orange juice. Maybe a glass of juice would relieve his craving. He opened several overhead cabinets searching for the glasses; he found a liquor cabinet instead. He stared at the bottles. He reached in and removed a fifth of Jim Beam. Only his third sober night, but looking at the familiar label brought the cravings back. He was still staring at the bottle when he heard, “Ben.”
He turned and saw his wife standing in the door—and the disappointment in her eyes. He replaced the bottle in the cabinet and shut the door.
“I won’t let her down, Kate.”
Nothing is more disappointing to a lawyer than a client’s deal falling apart—all right, next to not getting paid, nothing is more disappointing to a lawyer than a client’s deal falling apart. How many times had a lawyer arrived at the bargaining table ready to close a deal only to have the other party shrug lamely and turn his palms up, empty-handed? No money. Nothing to put on the bargaining table. Can’t close the deal. Lying in bed, alone, as she had felt most of her life, Elizabeth Brice now wondered: What if the abductor can’t close the deal? What if the abductor had nothing to put on the bargaining table? Three-fourths of all children abducted by strangers are killed within three hours. Grace had been abducted seventy-eight hours ago.
What if her daughter was dead?
1:18 A.M.
Patrol Officer Eddie Yates hated working double shifts, especially evenings and deep nights, 3:00 P.M. to 7:00 A.M., mostly because he couldn’t spend four hours pumping iron at the gym. But on the chief’s orders, every cop on the force was working double shifts, rousing out sex offenders around the clock—there were a hell of a lot of perverts out there, Eddie had discovered. He was hoping the girl’s killer was on his list; arresting a child killer would look awful good on the résumé he would give the Dallas PD.
He checked the in-unit computer screen for the next pervert on his list: Jennings, Gary M., white, twenty-eight, blond, blue eyes, five-ten, one-fifty-five (heck, Eddie could take this guy with one hand), charged with stat rape eight years ago, pleaded out to indecency with a child, received probation, not even a speeding ticket since. Risk level 3: no basis for concern for re-offense. That’s all the entry said, but Eddie could read between the lines. This boy had been nineteen at the time of the offense, probably in college; he and a girl were partying, ended up in bed, turned out she’s jail bait. But she had to be damn close to legal or they wouldn’t have let him plead out. And now he’s branded a sex offender for life.
Eddie sighed. Gary Jennings wasn’t a sex offender; he just screwed the wrong girl at the wrong time. What was it Eddie’s mom used to say? There but for the grace of God? Well, this’ll be a monumental waste of time. But still, why didn’t Jennings register with the police department when he moved to town like he’s supposed to?
Apartment 121, that was Jennings’s place. DMV records showed Jennings owned a black ’99 Ford F-150 pickup. Eddie drove slowly through the apartment complex parking lot until he spotted a black Ford pickup. The plates checked out.
Eddie parked behind the pickup and exited the cruiser; he slid his nightstick into his holster, not that he expected any trouble from Jennings—but he could dream, couldn’t he? He grabbed the big heavy flashlight—actually a sledgehammer with a light on the end, a more effective tool for subduing a reluctant perp, not that he had ever had to. He shone the light inside the cab then tried the door, gently, so as not to set off the alarm. No need—it was unlocked, like half the cars in town tonight. There hadn’t been a car stolen in Post Oak, Texas, since Eddie had been on the force. The place was a regular fucking Mayberry—and he felt like Barney Fife. How can you fight crime when there ain’t no crime? Which was why Eddie Yates yearned for a job with the Dallas PD: they had some real crime down there, the most dangerous city in America.
Eddie opened the door and shone the light around the cab. It was clean as a whistle. He looked in the console and found a cell phone. Jennings wasn’t even worried someone might steal it.
Aunt Bee, you seen Opie?
Eddie checked under the seat. Nothing. He lifted the rubber floor mat on the passenger side. Nothing. He lifted the mat on the driver’s side and—what’s this? A photograph? He picked it up and shone the light on it. It was a photograph all right, like the copy you got when you printed a mug shot off the computer. Except this wasn’t a mug shot of a criminal. This was a picture of a naked girl. A young naked girl. Kiddie porn. Eddie shook his head. Damn, he’d been wrong about this Jennings. He really was a pervert.
Of course, having a picture of a naked girl in his truck didn’t make Jennings guilty of abducting the Brice girl. And how would he explain to the duty sergeant what he was doing inside Jennings’s truck? Eddie thought for a second, then he rubbed the edge of the picture where he had touched it and replaced the picture under the floor mat.
Eddie shut the door quietly then stepped to the bed of the truck. Jennings had a matching fiberglass bed cover, the kind with the little hatch so you could get stuff out without taking the whole damn thing off. Eddie tried the hatch; as he expected, it was unlocked.
Opie’s gone fishin’ with his pa, Sheriff Andy!
Eddie opened the hatch and stuck the flashlight and his head in. He started at the nearest corner of the bed and moved the light around the bed and was about to pull his head out when—What the hell is that? In the far corner of the bed, it looked like a
shirt, gold with a number … a jersey.
Eddie’s adrenaline kicked in big time.
He pulled his head out and tried to stay calm and figure out what to do. If he called this in and it turned out to be Jennings’s bowling shirt, the guys would be on his ass for a month. On the other hand, if it was the dead girl’s jersey, he might screw up the evidence, conducting a search without a warrant. He vaguely remembered the training class on search and seizure, something about a plain view doctrine, that if the evidence was in plain sight, that was okay. Eddie wondered, If he had to open the hatch and stick his head in with a flashlight, would that be in plain sight?
Well, shit, no sense in getting ribbed for a month. He would pull the shirt out; if it was a bowling shirt, no harm done. If it was the girl’s jersey, he’d throw it back in and deny ever touching it.
Eddie walked to the patrol unit, opened the trunk, and retrieved a tire tool. He returned to the pickup, stuck his upper body back under the bed cover, and reached for the shirt with the tool. He dragged the shirt along the bed until it was at the hatch opening. He spread the shirt out, holding the light on it, until he could read the blue letters.
Tornadoes.
He flipped the jersey over. A number nine on the back.
Eddie now wondered, Could an on-duty patrol officer claim the $25 million reward?
2:02 A.M.
Inside Apartment 121, Gary Jennings couldn’t sleep. He rolled over close to his wife, his chest to her back—she had taken to sleeping on her side with a pillow between her legs—and slid his hand around her round belly. She was seven months’ pregnant and bigger than he was now, but he didn’t care.
He was going to be a daddy.
Gary wished his own dad could be here to see his grandchild; he had died eight years ago of a heart attack right after that incident in college. His father had died of embarrassment. He had been embarrassed by his son. And Gary couldn’t blame him. Jesus, he had been a real fuckup in college, a frat rat, drinking, partying, playing golf, earning eighteen hours of fucking-off credit per semester, and screwing girls—What the hell was a sixteen-year-old girl doing at a goddamned frat party?
And he’d still be a fuckup today if he hadn’t found Debbie.
Debbie had changed his life. She had said he would forever be a fuckup if he didn’t give up his sinful ways—well, she didn’t say fuckup, she said lost child, which he translated into fuckup. And, man, he was tired of being a fuckup. And she said he’d never have any money. And, man, he was really tired of being broke. So he had figured, what the hell, it was worth a shot. All he had to do, she had said, was go to church, quit drinking beer and smoking dope, and cancel his subscription to Playboy.
And she was right.
Only two years since he had given up sinning, he was married, soon to be a father, and working at a great job. He had hired on six months ago; right now, he was just a code monkey, grinding out computer code twelve hours a day, wired on Snickers and Red Bull.
But the long hours were about to pay off: his stock options vested in six months and they’d be worth a million bucks after the IPO. One million dollars. As soon as the lockout period expired, he would cash out. He would tithe 10 percent to the church, Debbie would insist on that (although he might be able negotiate her down to 7.5 percent), pay 15 percent in taxes, and net about $750,000. He’d put a hundred thousand in an education trust for the baby so she wouldn’t be a fuckup, then he’d buy Debbie a real nice house and use the rest to start his own Internet company.
Lying next to Debbie and looking forward to the future, a slight smile crossed his face. He had finally found his place in this world. Gary Jennings counted his blessings as he drifted off to sleep.
Gary jumped up in bed at the sound of his apartment door being battered off its hinges. Debbie woke and screamed. Men were suddenly inside their bedroom, shouting and shining bright lights and pointing guns, men wearing black uniforms with POLICE in white letters.
DAY FIVE
6:17 A.M.
Lieutenant Ben Brice carries a black XM21 sniper rifle fitted with a Starlight Scope and a Sionics suppressor. Twenty ammo magazines, six high-explosive and two white-phosphorous grenades, a .45-caliber handgun, C-4 explosive, a claymore mine, and morphine are packed in his web gear. An Uzi, his backup weapon, is secured to his rucksack. An eleven-inch Bowie knife is strapped to his right calf. He carries the tools of killing because he is a professional killer, an Army Green Beret special operations soldier. We Kill for Peace reads the tattoo on his left arm. Seventeen days in-country and Ben Brice has already seen enough killing for a lifetime. But he knows the killing has only just begun.
And after this night, he will never know peace.
He is walking through smoke and ashes thick like gray confetti and out of the smoldering hamlet in the Quang Tri province of South Vietnam, leaving the china doll and his soul behind.
He stops.
He is standing above an irrigation ditch; down below is a tangled mass of pale bodies. The stench of death hangs in the humid air like a thick fog. The sounds of death rise from below, the last gasps and groans of the dying.
He drops his rifle and jumps down into the ditch. He checks each body for life, frantic now, trying to find life, any sign of life. But there is no life to be found. There is only death. He counts forty-one—old men, women, and children.
His boots are soaked in blood. His hands are dripping with blood. The china doll’s blood and brains cling to his fatigues like souvenirs of death.
He is drenched in death.
He extends his bloody hands to the heavens and screams into the still night: “Why, God?”
He feels faint and his body sways. He closes his eyes. He falls forward, down onto that white blanket of death.
But he is not falling.
He is floating.
He opens his eyes. Below him, the pale bodies are now bright white—a blinding white world as far as he can see. Above him, his parachute is deployed, but he doesn’t remember the violent jerk when the chute caught air.
He’s sailing now, skimming the surface, almost able to reach out and touch the white, as pure as the driven … snow. Pure white snow. A white world of deep heavenly snow. Sailing faster and faster, higher and higher above the snow.
Dark objects down below come into view. Trees. Tall thick trees of timber country. And among the trees, curled up and shivering and wrapped in a blanket of snow like a present under a Christmas tree, is God’s little creature.
He floats down to the creature and lands on both feet. He unbuckles the parachute harness and lets it drop and disappear into the deep snow that he walks through without effort to the cold and shivering creature. He’s now wearing his dress uniform and the green beret and all the medals pinned to the jacket and the Medal of Honor around his neck. He removes his jacket, squats, and wraps the coat around the creature; he gently lifts it from the snow, takes it into his arms, and holds it close, warming God’s little creature. He brushes the snow from the creature’s face and through his tears he sees her, his saving Grace.
“Ben, wake up! They got him!”
And then she is gone. Ben opened his eyes to Kate leaning over him.
“Got who?”
“The man who took Gracie.”
6:21 A.M.
“Might be him. I’m just not sure.”
Coach Wally Fagan was staring through the two-way mirror at the sad young man in the white jail uniform sitting at a metal table in the bare interrogation room; his cuffed hands were spread flat on the table, and he appeared dazed and confused. He had blond hair and blue eyes, but he didn’t seem nearly as big as the man who had asked for Gracie after the game. He seemed different.
“Look, Coach,” the police chief said, “the guy’s a convicted sex offender and we found child pornography and Gracie’s jersey in his truck—where do you think he got that from?”
“Well, yeah, then I guess it’s him.”
Still, there was something about h
im that didn’t fit. Wally just couldn’t put his finger on it.
Ben sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his bare arms and chest, trying to suppress the shakes.
“Gracie wasn’t with him, was she?” he said to Kate.
“How’d you know?”
“Angelina was right. Gracie’s cold. They’ve taken her up north.”
“They who?”
Ben rubbed his face. “The abductors.”
Kate punched the power button on the small television. The screen flashed on to a video of a police team using a two-man battering ram to knock down an apartment door early that Tuesday morning. They shouted “Police!” and stormed the place with weapons drawn; minutes later, they led a sleepy young man out of the apartment and into the bright lights of the media. He appeared anything but dangerous in red plaid pajamas with his hands cuffed behind his back and escorted by cops who towered over him. He looked like a skinny kid. Trailing behind him was a distraught young pregnant woman wearing a robe. The early morning arrest had been a made-for-TV event. Kate pointed at the screen.
“But he’s the abductor!”
6:45 A.M.
He doesn’t look like a pervert, John thought as he stared at the suspect through the interrogation room window. He didn’t look anything like the Army bullies; he wasn’t coarse, thick, hairy, dirty, or ugly. But then, what’s a pervert supposed to look like? The mug shots of sex offenders in the paper were always of unshaven miscreants with greasy hair and acne scars and missing teeth. This guy was clean and clean-cut. In fact, his face seemed vaguely familiar, like the kids just out of college who worked at BriceWare.com; but then, his was a face John saw every day in the high-tech world—young, white, male, and pale.
John knew now that he would never see Gracie again. Never hold her again or talk to her again or admire her swell face again. This guy had taken her away. Forever. John wanted to get mad, but he couldn’t muster any anger. He could barely muster the strength in his wobbly legs to remain standing. So he leaned forward and rested his weight against the window. Tears came into his eyes. At least her pain had stopped. And he found himself envying her again: his pain would never stop.
