by Osborne, Jon
Bad choice, Agent Blankenship. Very bad choice, indeed. You were clearly instructed to deliver $250,000 to the Caymans bank account number provided to you by 2 p.m. yet you failed to do so. As a direct result, the right engine on your plane has now flamed out. Only one engine remains now. If that one should happen to flame out, your plane will surely crash and the baby will surely die a horrific death. Stand by for your punishment.
Blankenship turned to face Krugman and wrinkled up his face in confusion. “Stand by for your punishment? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Krugman shrugged. “No idea, Bruce. But it sure doesn’t sound good.” The Director paused. “As a matter of fact, it sounds pretty fucking bad.” Just then, a knock sounded at Blankenship’s office door. Both he and Krugman snapped up their heads, tracing the noise to find a UPS deliveryman standing in the doorway. “Agent Bruce Blankenship?” the man asked.
Blankenship rose to his feet and crossed the office, his heart in his throat now and his legs shaking with a potent combination of trepidation and fear. “That’s me,” he said. “What’s up?”
The deliveryman held up in his right hand a yellow package that had been cushioned on the inside with bubble wrap. “This is for you, sir,” he said. “Could you please sign for it for me?”
Blankenship reached out and took the plastic stylus the man was offering. Quickly scribbling his name into the digital box of a handheld computer screen, he handed the electronic device back to the deliveryman. The deliveryman then took the device in his left hand and handed Blankenship the yellow package in return, giving him a polite smile as he did so. “Thank you very much, sir. Have a wonderful day.”
When the deliveryman had gone, Blankenship ripped open the package while Krugman looked on eagerly. Blankenship tipped out its contents onto the cluttered surface of his desk, dreading what they might find inside.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Krugman breathed.
Standing next to the Director, Blankenship fought back the overwhelming urge to vomit at the horrific sight in front of them. Wasn’t easy. Unlikely as the possibility might seem, though, he felt entirely capable of vomiting up his own soul right now.
Nestled in a clear Ziploc baggie on his desk was an infant’s severed pinkie finger.
Blankenship looked back up at the Director and tried his best not to cry. That wasn’t easy, either. One of the hardest things he’d ever needed to manage in his entire life, as a matter fact. “I don’t think Jesus Christ had anything to do with this, sir,” he said in a voice cracking with emotion.
Krugman reached back into the package and extracted a folded-up piece of paper before unfolding it to reveal the same distinctive feminine script they’d found on the homemade paper badges back at the Manor Inn.
“What does it say?” Blankenship asked.
Krugman handed over the note and closed his eyes. “Have a look for yourself.”
Breathing heavily, Blankenship looked down at the paper and scanned the words with tear-filled eyes:
Pay first and second installments to the second bank account number by 9 p.m. tonight. Should you fail to do this, refer to your recently received package for an example of the repercussions. The baby is still alive, at least for now, but sadly he can’t play a full game of the Finger Family on his right hand anymore. Shocking, isn’t it? Anyway, let’s keep his left hand intact, shall we? Disobey us again and it won’t be a finger you receive the next time.
It’ll be a fucking heart.
CHAPTER 39
Krugman shouted in a strong voice while he and Blankenship stood in the middle of Blankenship’s office, a dead space that felt like it had just had all the air sucked out of it and left them struggling to breathe in a giant, lung-bending vacuum. Still, at least one of them was keeping their shit together. “Agent Wandstedt!” the Director bellowed. “Get the hell in here!”
A middle-aged female agent with short black hair stuck her head into the office a moment later. Working in the office directly next to Blankenship’s cut down considerably on the length of her journey. Thank God for small favors: a much-needed bonus right now against the maddening ticking of the racing clock. “Yes, sir?” she asked.
Krugman jerked his head toward the hallway over her left shoulder. “Go catch that UPS guy who just left here before he leaves the building. See if you can’t find out who sent us this package he just delivered.”
Erin Wandstedt glanced over at the baby’s severed pinkie that was still sitting in a Ziploc bag on Blankenship’s desk. Her face went ghost-white at the horrific sight, then flooded with an additional series of colors: first red, then blue, then purple. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she breathed.
The Director nodded. “Yeah, we know. We’ve already had that discussion. Anyway, hurry up already. Go catch that guy before he leaves. Find out everything you can about both him and the package, then report directly back to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Wandstedt had scampered away, her pretty face now green, Krugman turned back to Blankenship. “She’s probably not going to turn up anything useful but we still need to cover all our bases here. I’m starting to think you were right, though: we’re dealing with some real pros here, Bruce. Some real vicious animals.”
Blankenship grunted, still feeling sick to his stomach. Thankfully, though, Krugman’s steadfast display of professionalism in the face of this atrocity in front of them had rubbed off on him somewhat, helping him to deal with the intense nausea swirling around in his gut. No big surprise there, though. The old man had always been a great role model, ever since the very beginning. And after all these years, Blankenship knew that he could still learn a thing or two from the man. “Understatement of the century, sir,” Blankenship said in response to Krugman’s classification of the kidnappers as animals. “But, yeah, there’s no way in hell they’d be sloppy enough to send the finger under their real names. Hell, Wandstedt will probably find out that Barack Obama himself sent it from the West Wing of the White House. Still, how the fuck could they have known we weren’t going to pay so quickly?”
Krugman grimaced as he studied the infant’s finger some more, which had been severed cleanly at the bottom joint with what looked to have been some sort of industrial-strength scissors. “Well, clearly, they did it in advance,” he said. “Still, I think we would’ve received the finger whether or not we’d paid. These assholes want to show us they mean business here.”
Blankenship looked down at the baby’s finger himself. He’d never seen anything more gruesome in his entire life. Not even close. “Message received,” he said, blowing out a slow breath that deflated his chest. “Loud and clear and then some. They’ve sure as hell convinced the shit out of me. I’m ready to empty out my own bank account to pay the ransom. Take out a second mortgage on my house. Whatever it takes.”
Krugman’s face hardened. Obviously, his anger was boiling inside him now just as hotly as was Blankenship’s, a crack in the Director’s calm façade, however slight. Blankenship was happy to see it. Seemed that the old man was human, after all. “Me, too,” Krugman said. “I’d pay whatever it took. Too bad that’s not an option for us here. We don’t negotiate with terrorists, no matter what they do. Anyway, get the Ziploc bag on dry ice and ship the finger down to Maggie Flynn in DC stat. Tell her I said to fast-track the DNA results. Tell her I said to drop everything else she’s working on and to work on only that until it’s finished. Then get over to Bay Village and talk to the Paulsons again. Bring them up to speed on what’s going on here but don’t tell them about the finger until we’re absolutely sure it’s what the kidnappers told us it was. No sense in traumatizing them any further at this point in the case when even we’re not sure what’s going on ourselves. We need to dot all our Is and cross all our Ts before delivering any messages of mutilation we don’t understand yet. Don’t mention the ransom demand to them, either. It’ll only make things more complicated than they already are.”
Blankenship had already s
lipped on his jacket by the time the Director had finished speaking. He was chomping at the bit to get out there on the streets and actually do something already. To somehow, some way, save that poor baby before the unthinkable happened. “Yes, sir,” Blankenship said. “I’m on it.”
CHAPTER 40
On his drive over to Bay Village five minutes later, Blankenship phoned up Maggie Flynn down in DC just as a light snow began to fall, the first appearance of the white stuff of the season. The fluffy white flakes settled onto the 4Runner’s windshield before immediately melting away, the resulting moisture whisked off by the windshield wipers that had been fixed to their lowest setting.
The FBI’s lead lab tech answered her phone after just two short rings while the steady shoop-shoop-shoop of the wipers filled Blankenship’s ears and threatened to pull him off into dreamland despite the high-octane events of the day. Both the adrenalin and coffee had worn off by now and now he was operating only on fumes. He just hoped fumes would be enough. “Maggie Flynn here,” she said.
Blankenship angled the 4-Runner onto I-90 and merged with the heavy traffic that was flowing down the busy travel corridor, at the same time stifling a loud yawn. Leaning forward in his seat, he turned up the heater in the vehicle before straightening again. Though the extra warmth further threatened to lull him off to sleep, he was absolutely freezing right now. The lesser of two evils, he supposed. After all, he hadn’t read of too many human popsicles catching bad guys. “Maggie,” he said, “it’s Bruce Blankenship up in Cleveland. How are you doing today?”
The lab tech known to everyone around the FBI by her nickname of “Google” due to the sheer efficiency of her computer-like brain cleared her throat softly. “Agent Blankenship,” she said. “I’m so glad you called. As a matter of fact, I was just about to call you. I finally finished up with the analysis of Helen Morgan’s soiled underwear. Sorry it took me so long.”
A chill passed right through Blankenship, icing his core. He shivered against it, feeling even colder now. Still, at least it woke him up a little. He’d felt halfway to unconsciousness before receiving the welcome news. “What did you find out?” he asked, feeling his pulse begin to pound away in his wrists. This could be it. Just the major break they’d been waiting for. “Any DNA material you can track?”
Flynn shuffled some papers on her side of the connection. “Well, that’s where things get weird. I found semen but no sperm.”
Blankenship frowned, not quite understanding the lab tech’s meaning. “What does that mean?” he asked. “How is something like that even possible?”
Flynn blew out a slow breath. “It’s possible because your suspect is what’s known as an aspermatic non-secretor. Rare, but certainly not unheard-of. Only affects a very small percentage of the world’s male population. Anyway, I’ll save you the explanation of all the technical mumbo-jumbo involved, but basically sperm is what we extract DNA from so since I found no sperm on the underwear it also means I found no DNA. I’m very sorry, Bruce, but I’m afraid it’s a dead end. Entirely useless for what we need.”
Blankenship grimaced. Seemed to him like dead ends were the only kind of ends they’d been coming up against during the entirety of this maddening case – more dead ends than a fancy housing development featuring cul-de-sacs down every cobbled street. Or more dead ends than a cemetery; probably a more appropriate comparison considering the circumstances. “Damn,” Blankenship growled, feeling his cheeks heat up with a fresh flood of anger. “If it weren’t for bad news in this case I wouldn’t get any news at all.”
Flynn clucked sympathetically. “I’m very sorry, Bruce. I wish I had happier news for you but I just don’t.”
Blankenship reached the exit for Bay Village and maneuvered the 4-Runner off the highway, feeling his temples begin to throb now. “Not your fault, Maggie,” he said, turning down the loudly blowing heater to hear her better. “Anyway, I’ve got something else I need for you to work on now. Krugman says you should drop everything else just as soon as you get it, make it your top priority.”
“What’s that?”
Blankenship brought the lab tech up to speed on the recent delivery of the baby’s severed finger to his office, trying his best to make the details sound just as un-gruesome as he possibly could. Wasn’t easy. This wasn’t a Dr. Suess story here, after all. More like Stephen King giving a dramatic midnight reading of The Shining in a pitch-black graveyard.
Flynn sucked in a sharp breath when he’d finished relating all the gory particulars. “Oh my God,” she said. “That’s absolutely horrific.”
“Yeah, I know. Anyway, can you do it for us, Maggie? We’d really appreciate it.”
“Of course. Don’t be ridiculous. That won’t be any problem at all. When will I get the baby’s finger?”
Blankenship checked his watch. The baby’s finger should be leaving on a plane for DC right now. The only cargo on the hastily arranged flight. “Maybe three hours before it arrives at your doorstep, Maggie,” he said. “Thanks again for this. It really means a lot to me, both personally and professionally.” Blankenship knew the lab tech’s day had just been extended indefinitely. A salaried position that had never adequately considered the grueling hours Flynn put in on a regular basis.
Flynn said, “Don’t be silly, Bruce. There’s no need for thanks. It’s my job. It’s exactly what I’m here for.” She paused, then added, “I was really sorry to hear about Dana Whitestone, Bruce. Such a horrible thing to happen to such a wonderful woman. She’ll be missed terribly, please know that. I felt absolutely awful that I couldn’t make it to Cleveland for her funeral but I had two sick kids at home that day and I just couldn’t swing it. I still feel terrible about it. Probably always will.”
Blankenship fought back a sudden wave of melancholy at the unexpected mention of Dana’s name. He sat up straighter in his seat and shook his head in disappointment with himself. He hadn’t thought about his partner in almost a full day now, and that made him feel guilty as hell. And why shouldn’t it make him feel guilty as hell? He pursed his lips, not particularly liking himself right now. What kind of partner had he been? he wondered. What kind of man was he now? He only hoped that the people in his life remembered him better once he was gone. Not that he would’ve deserved it after the way he’d so efficiently filed away Dana’s memory.
He cleared a small lump from his throat as he reached the front guardhouse to the Paulsons’ ridiculously opulent housing development and lifted his eyebrows, duly impressed. So this was how the other half lived. Not a bad gig if you could find the work. “Thanks again, Maggie. I’ve got to go deliver some bad news to the parents of the kidnapped baby so I need to let you go now. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Flynn sounded puzzled. “You’re not going to tell them about the finger, are you? I’d really like to examine it first before you do something like that.”
Blankenship let out a heavy sigh, missing Madison and the girls for what seemed to be the millionth time today. He couldn’t wait to get home to them tonight. He just hoped that he didn’t crush their ribcages with his powerful hugs when he did. “Nope,” he said, feeling the enormity of what he needed to do next weighing so heavily on his exhausted shoulders that he feared they might actually collapse under the excruciating burden of it all. “I’m just going to tell the Paulsons that I still haven’t found their baby yet.”
CHAPTER 41
Flashing his ID at the uniformed guard out front and receiving a collegial nod in return, Blankenship waited for the security barrier to rise before pulling the 4-Runner into the prestigious housing complex. As he weaved his way through the curving, brick-lined streets of the Village Walk development in Bay Village – multi-million-dollar estates on either side seeming to stare down their haughty patrician noses at his sorry wheels the entire way – Blankenship’s eyeballs nearly popped out of his skull at the pure luxury of it all. The smell of money hung in the air just as noticeably as the smell of burning leaves in more modest suburban neigh
borhoods during the fall months. Maybe even more noticeably. Nothing subtle about this place in the least. The residents here were rich – goddamn rich – and they wanted all the lowly commoners who dared to step foot in their hallowed domain to damn well know it, too.
Blankenship had punched the address of his destination into the GPS sitting on his dash to save himself some time but he couldn’t have missed the Paulson mansion even if he’d tried. It rose up higher, more magnificent than the rest, even considering all the other stunning estates surrounding it. In a neighborhood where cash was clearly king, Zachary Paulson sat comfortably upon the gilded throne, the head upon which his glittering, jewel-encrusted crown rested obviously not at all uneasy by any stretch of the imagination.
A few moments later, Blankenship navigated the 4-Runner up the long, winding driveway of 823 Poplar Lane – a driveway that ended with a circular cement rotary inside of which stood an exact-replica statue of Michelangelo’s David. He lifted his eyebrows in admiration again, suitably impressed with the artist’s precise and detailed handiwork on the piece as he killed the 4-Runner’s engine and parked behind a shiny black 2012 Maybach that hadn’t even been garaged despite the threatening weather conditions outside. From all appearances, the brand-new Maybach in front of him was just Zachary Paulson’s tooling-around-town car. No big deal. A toy. A massive garage fifty feet away from the main house stored God-only-knew how many more expensive vehicles – the ones the man probably wanted to keep in mint condition. Images of cherry Rolls-Royces, untouched Lamborghinis and all other manner of fully restored classics flashed through Blankenship’s mind as he exited his own hopelessly mundane 4-Runner and made his way up the short walk to the set of enormous double doors out front that were standing guard against the unwashed riff-raff of the world such as himself. When he rang the bell, Beethoven’s Fur Elise played in his ears. Nice touch. Classy.
