Gone

by James Patterson

  When I turned, far away over the trees, I could see the shiny surface of the Pacific. Wow, do I have a weird job, I thought.

  We were under strict radio silence. Too bad there wasn’t voice silence. Up ahead in the dark, Emily and I could overhear Bassman complaining about what a bullshit detail this was and how, since it was LA cops who’d been murdered, it should be the LAPD kicking in the front door.

  Emily and I shook our heads at each other. I’d heard blowhards before, but this guy was something else.

  It took us almost twenty minutes to get into position along the horse trail at the bottom of the shrub-and-loose-dirt-covered slope behind the rented mansion. We spread ourselves out in two-person teams along the bottom of the slope, one team every ten or twenty yards. If Perrine came down the hill, he’d be nailed. I prayed that he would.

  When I checked my watch, it was a quarter to twelve. The breach team was due to go in at 12:20 on the nose. It was exactly 12:15 when the bullshit started. We turned as Bassman, who was stationed on the trail to the right of Parker and me, started climbing up the hill with his partner.

  “Bassman,” I hissed, rushing down the trail toward him. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Getting into a better position,” he hissed back.

  “That’s not the plan, Bassman. You’re gonna get your ass shot.”

  “What are you? My mother?” he said, dismissing me with a wave as he continued up the slope.

  After another minute, he disappeared over the crest of the hill with his partner.

  The moment he disappeared, I looked up to see the huge form of an MH-60 Black Hawk helicopter appear out of the night. It passed extremely low, directly over my head, making no more noise than a Cuisinart mixer. I knew that the military teams were being inserted into the compound by air, in conjunction with the SWAT teams. What I didn’t know was how discreet their entrance would be.

  Less than a minute later, up over the ridge in the distance, there came several sharp, loud bangs that must have been the SWAT teams breaching the house’s wrought iron gate. There was a roar of engines that had to be the SWAT vans. Over the tactical mike, I could hear cops—or maybe they were soldiers—calling out a jumble of shouted directions amid more bangs.

  That was when the firing started. From everywhere at once, it seemed the silence burst with the unmistakable metal-hammering-on-metal sound of automatic gunfire. The dark sky above us lit up, suddenly glowing with muzzle flashes as the jumble over the radio became confused screams.

  The firing was becoming heavier when I heard an unmistakable voice over the cacophony.

  “I’m pinned down!” Bassman was yelling. “By the pool house! Cop pinned down! Somebody help!”

  “Of course he is,” I said to Parker as I started up the loose-dirt hill.

  When I peeked over the ridge, I didn’t see any sign of Bassman, but I did see a figure on the deck. He was a short Hispanic guy in tighty whities, with a tribal tattoo on his shirtless chest, and he was staring straight at me as he raised a pump-action shotgun.

  Before I could duck, get my hand onto the pistol grip of the rifle strapped to my back, or say my act of contrition, a half-dozen FBI SWAT guys appeared in the backyard from the side of the house, firing. The glass doors on the deck blew in, along with most of the gunman, as a fusillade of MP5 fire ripped open the entire front of him, from his crotch to his throat.

  I stood there, frozen, watching helplessly as the SWAT team rushed in through the back doors.

  If they hadn’t come, I would have been dead, I thought. A second later, I would have been gone. I knew it in my bones.

  I shook all over.

  I’d never been to war.

  Until now.

  CHAPTER 54

  I PULLED MYSELF TOGETHER by the time Parker arrived behind me. I raced with her around the pool and around the dead guy on the deck, into the house.

  “Down! Freeze!” cops were yelling. From somewhere a woman was crying.

  As we passed a bathroom, Parker tapped me on the back.

  “Mike! Oh, shit, Mike! It’s him!”

  “Who? Perrine? Where?”

  I turned. It wasn’t Perrine. It was Scanlon. I recognized him from his passport photo. Barely. He was on his back in the tub, on top of the torn shower curtain. His hands were handcuffed behind him, and his throat was cut to the bone.

  We scoured the house for another twenty minutes before one of the ATF SWAT guys found the trick door in the wine cellar. Beyond it was a steep set of circular stairs, with faux castle walls and candelabra, leading toward a Gothic, dungeonlike door on the bottom.

  “What the hell is this?” Emily said as one of the hostage rescue guys in front of us pushed it open.

  “They left this out on Realtor dot com,” I said.

  The door led to a large octagonal room with benches along the crimson walls and a huge platform bed in the middle of it. Strapped on the bloodred silk moiré walls were lots of very interesting objects. Whips, handcuffs, leather hoods, and other assorted adult devices that, when bought off the Internet, probably arrived in plain brown packages. There was a sophisticated sound system and even a mounted camera in the ceiling.

  “Now I think I know why the previous owner got a divorce,” I said.

  One of the commandos pushed open yet another door, on the other side of the room. There was another long corridor behind it. It dead-ended at a brick wall with a little ladder bolted into it. At the top of the ladder was a hatch. An open hatch.

  I poked my head out. The escape hatch opened up onto the trail, not twenty feet from where we’d been stationed behind the house. I shook my head. Then pounded my thigh with my fist.

  No! If we’d still been in position, we would have heard Perrine escaping. Now Perrine could be anywhere.

  “He’s in the woods behind the house,” one of the commandos called into his radio. “Get the chopper! Light the park south and east of the target house, and, dammit, get K-nine into the park!”

  When I went back into the underground sex chamber, Bassman was standing there, examining one of the curios on the wall. I just stared at the jackass, about as pissed off at anyone as I’d ever been in my life.

  He finally noticed me staring. No wonder he made detective, I thought.

  “Can the eyeballing, Bennett,” he said, puffing up his already pretty puffed-up self. “You need to get something off your chest, open your trap.”

  Actually, I did need to get something off my chest. But I forgot to use my words. I took two steps forward and punched him as hard as I could in the mouth.

  He grunted as his head snapped to the side. Then he screamed as he rushed forward and rammed his shoulder into my chest, knocking out my breath as he bulled me backward. He was about to get me down when I wrapped a leg around the back of his ankle and spun us both sideways. Bassman landed hard on his back, beside the bed, with me on top of him. I punched him three times quick again in his face before two of the SWAT guys could peel me off him.

  “What are you, crazy?” Bassman yelled, thumbing blood on his lip.

  “We could have had him!” I screamed back, going berserk. “He was here! We had him! But you had to charge the hill, didn’t you? Had to screw things up like the two-bit flake that you are!”

  “Screw you, Bennett!” he screamed. “You’re full of shit! Screw you!”

  “You already did it for me,” I told the dumbass. “Don’t worry, Bassman. You already royally did.”

  PART THREE

  TROUBLE ON THE HOME FRONT

  CHAPTER 55

  IN THE MORNING, MARY Catherine left Trent in charge of pouring the pancakes and went down into the cellar to find another apron. Rummaging through a packing box, she glanced up as she heard soft footsteps coming down from one of the upstairs bedrooms.

  “Hey, Chrissy,” she heard Trent say.

  Oh, boy, let the games begin, Mary Catherine thought, moving some Christmas ornaments over to get at another U-Haul box. Trent was at the
age when his goal in life, the very purpose of his existence, in fact, seemed to be teasing the girls as much as he possibly could. And Chrissy, being the youngest, was his favorite target.

  “Good morning, little sister,” Trent continued sweetly. “So nice to see you this happy day. Sleep well?”

  “What are you doing?” Chrissy said skeptically. “You’re not supposed to have the oven on. Where’s Mary Catherine?”

  “Who knows?” Trent lied. “I’m doing an experiment, Chrissy. See how this batter is running off the spatula and splattering onto the pan? This is exactly like when somebody gets shot and all the blood goes flying all over the place. Imagine I was just shot, OK, and I’m bleeding to death, and this pan here is covered in my blood. Isn’t it awesome?”

  Mary Catherine shook her head, smiling. What is it with boys? she thought. How do they even come up with this stuff?

  “Stop it, Trent!” Chrissy said. “Blood doesn’t even do that. You’re lying.”

  “No, it’s true,” Trent said sagely. “Blood splatters like crazy. Way worse than this, especially if a bullet nicks an artery. I saw it on TV.”

  Note to self, Mary Catherine thought. Change the TV’s parental channel locks as soon as possible.

  “You know what else?” Trent continued. “I bet Dad is right now looking at blood splatter on a wall next to a dead body. I mean, that’s what Dad does, right? He’s a cop. So whenever they find a dead guy with bullet holes in him or a knife sticking out of his neck, they call Dad in to the scene. Isn’t he lucky? Isn’t that so cool?”

  Mary Catherine winced, waiting for Chrissy to start screaming or crying, but was surprised when nothing came out.

  “Actually,” Chrissy said calmly, “it’s not cool. It’s just really gross, like you.”

  Yes! Mary Catherine thought. Chrissy was learning to defend herself. One good thing about being a member of a family this big was developing the ability to use the occasional sharp elbow. Excellent job, young lass, Mary Catherine thought. Offense was always the best defense.

  “Mary Catherine!” Trent yelled down the cellar stairs a second later. “Chrissy called me stupid!”

  “Stupid?” Mary Catherine said, winking at Chrissy as she made it back into the kitchen. “I believe the term I heard your sister use, young man, was gross.”

  CHAPTER 56

  THE COFFEE MACHINE’S BEEPER went off as half the sleepy Bennett clan fed on flapjacks. Mary Catherine took a porcelain cup out of the cabinet over the sink and filled it, carefully pouring in some half-and-half before she took it out the front door, onto the porch.

  She always loved going out in the morning, right before sunrise. The creak of the old screen door. The cold of the wind coming down from the mountains, the feel of old porch floorboards under her bare feet.

  The deputy US marshal on watch, Leo Piccini, stood abruptly from the camp chair he was sitting in and placed a copy of James Dickey’s To the White Sea on the railing of the porch, beside a Toughbook field laptop.

  The other men brought smartphones to while away the hours on watch, but Leo always had a book with him. Mary Catherine wondered how he read in the dark until one time she peeked out the window and saw him wearing night-vision goggles.

  After Mike had left, the marshals had come and beefed up security even more than usual. In addition to the now round-the-clock watch, yesterday they had come and put in high-tech motion detectors along the property’s perimeter, as well as night-vision video cameras. She didn’t know what would be next. Trip wires, maybe, and mines.

  She glanced at his weapon, an M4 automatic rifle, lying on the floor of the porch in its open case, with a towel covering it. It was scary to have to receive military-grade protection now. But Mike had called the day before and told her about the raid. About how they thought Perrine was in the US now. There really was no choice but to put up with it.

  “Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” Leo said as Mary Catherine handed him the coffee.

  Oh, yes, I did, Mary Catherine thought.

  In addition to being polite to a fault and seemingly intelligent, Leo was six one, lean, and really quite cute. From their brief conversations, she’d learned he was from Baltimore and about her age. She had already noticed that he didn’t wear a wedding ring.

  And why shouldn’t I notice such things? she thought. Ever since she and Mike had taken a sabbatical on their on-again, off-again relationship, she’d been pretty darn lonely up here on the prairie with the kids. She could bring Mr. Strong, Sensitive, and Silent his coffee, couldn’t she? She thought so. All day long, in fact.

  They stood, staring at each other.

  “So, how goes it? All quiet out here on the western front?” Mary Catherine said.

  “So far, so good,” Leo said, showing deep dimples as he smiled. “Though on one of the cameras, around three a.m., I did see a couple of owls duke it out with one another. I’m surprised it didn’t wake you up. It sounded like people screaming.”

  “Two males fighting. Over a lady owl, too, no doubt,” Mary Catherine said, shaking her head. “Isn’t that the way? Just like men. Maybe owls aren’t as wise as they say.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Leo said thoughtfully after a sip of the coffee. He smiled again, his twinkly eyes twinkling.

  “Sometimes the lady in question is worth a fight,” he said.

  Mary Catherine felt heat rise in her neck as the young marshal looked at her again for an extended beat with his light-brown eyes. Then he turned away, blowing on the coffee as he scanned the crooked line of the distant mountains.

  “If you say so, Marshal,” Mary Catherine managed to sputter as she turned back toward the porch door, hiding the blush rising into her face.

  “Carry on,” she said.

  CHAPTER 57

  THERE WERE A BUNCH of lessons to go over in pretty much each of the children’s curricula, but Mary Catherine, after hearing the warm-weather forecast, decided to make a command decision. As principal of the Exiled Bennett Western Academy, she was officially calling a day off.

  After breakfast, she left the older guys with Seamus and packed lunches, along with most of the younger kids, into the station wagon and headed to Cody’s farm. Everyone cheered as they pulled up in front of the horse barn.

  Though the kids complained about so many things, every last one of them loved riding Cody’s three horses, Spike, Marlowe, and Double Down. Not as much as she did, maybe. But almost.

  As Mr. Cody came out of the barn with Double Down already saddled, he put a startled look on his wrinkled face.

  “Why, what is this?” he said in mock surprise. “Where’d all you kids come from? Aren’t you supposed to be doing your lessons? Let me guess. The gang’s had it with everything, is that it? Y’all picking up stakes and hightailing it out of here for greener pastures?”

  The kids stared at the old farmer silently, their wide eyes on the saddled black horse. They wanted to ask if they could ride, of course, but Mary Catherine had forbidden them ever to ask for anything from their long-suffering host. If he offered, they could accept, but they could never do something so rude as to ask. In the silence, Chrissy and Shawna stared up at Double Down like they were going to explode.

  “Cat’s got all you guys’ tongues this morning, I see,” Cody said, peering at them. “Well, before you leave, could you do an old man one last favor? These horses of mine need to be rode, and I can’t find a cowboy or even an Indian anywhere to give them some exercise. I know it’s last-minute and all, and I do hate to impose, but do you think you crew could ride ’em for me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Cody,” Mary Catherine said as the kids bounced up and down by the horse-yard gate. “These kids do love the horses, but there is their schoolwork to consider. Maybe we should just head back to the house and get our lessons out of the way.”

  “No!!!” they all squealed, unable to contain themselves another moment.

  “Horse. Need to ride horse,” Trent chanted like the go
ofball he was as he pretended to pass out.

  “OK, OK,” Mary Catherine said, finally relenting. “Form a line, children. Excellent. There you go.”

  She turned as a car came into Mr. Cody’s side yard. It was Leo, in his government-issued Crown Vic. What now? Mary Catherine thought as she rushed over.

  “What is it, Leo? Is something wrong?” she said as she got to the passenger window.

  “No, no. Everything is fine, Mary Catherine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just thought I’d see if you guys were OK one more time and say good-bye.”

  Mary Catherine blinked at him rapidly.

  “What do you mean? You’re leaving? You’re not going to be working here anymore?”

  “Oh, no, of course not,” Leo said, smiling. “I just meant that my shift is over.”

  “Oh, oh, of course, Leo,” she said, fingering a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “You didn’t have to go to all the trouble of coming out here.”

  “No trouble. I wanted to,” Leo said softly, smiling as he stared into her eyes. “By the way, Juliana and Jane were saying that you guys haven’t had pizza in about a month, and I was wondering if it would be OK to pick up some for you guys for lunch today and bring it back.”

  “Oh, sure. That would be nice, Leo. Really nice. The kids would love you.”

  Maybe not just the kids, thought Mary Catherine.

  “I’ll see you later, then, Mary Catherine,” Leo finally said.

  “Later, then,” Mary Catherine whispered to herself as she watched him drive away.

  CHAPTER 58

  TWO DAYS OF SIFTING through the disaster in Newport Coast had yet to uncover hide or hair of Manuel Perrine. Even after we went back to Brentwood and tossed the rest of the dead smuggler Scanlon’s house and went through his phone records, we didn’t come up with one lead.

  The only high point, if you could call it that, was a fresh palm print in one of the upstairs bathrooms that matched the one we had in Perrine’s file. That proved, at least, that he had been in the house and was probably still in the country.