by Rachel Lee
She'd deserved everything he'd done to her. And that he'd done it in a way that would humiliate Grant Lawrence, well, that was a bonus. The old black bitch had wandered in, another Grant Lawrence devotee, and he'd taken care of her, too. The gods were with him, and it felt good.
He knew the gods were still with him when Grant asked if he could watch Cathy and Belle for a while. They had delivered his daughters—the daughters Grant had stolen—into his home. Now all he had to do was get rid of Grant and the justice of the gods would be complete.
And if Cathy Lawrence wouldn't accept him, well, girls got abducted and murdered all the time. It wasn't that difficult. He looked at her across the board, their eyes locked in a battle of wills.
"Your move," she said.
* * *
"You'll sit on him?" Terry asked. "I really need to be there to supervise this search."
Jerry Connally nodded. "Detective Sweeney made it clear. I'll keep him in line. Grant's my job. Go do yours."
"He's lucky," Terry said, extending a hand. "Not many men have friends like you."
Jerry shook his hand. "Keep in touch. I'll watch the phones here and call you if there's any news."
Forty minutes later, Terry knocked at the door of Bill Michaels' Crystal City apartment. It was across the Potomac, in Virginia, so Miri had put a word in here and there. There was no way he wasn't going to be there.
He knocked again, and again called out that he was a police officer serving a search warrant. There was no way this would get thrown out for failure to follow knock-and-announce procedures. Still receiving no answer, he nodded to the two officers holding the battering ram. With a deceptively casual swing, they turned the doorjamb to splinters.
Michaels certainly lived well. Dense pile carpeting, cream with an inlay of "GKM" in a decorative script of burgundy. The furniture was a blend of chrome and leather in the main sitting area, but Terry's attention went to the distressed maple roll-top desk. The warrant specified that they were looking for "documentary and/ or physical evidence related to the kidnapping for ransom of Catherine Suzanne Lawrence and Belle Lindsay Lawrence, and documentary and/or physical evidence related to the murder of Nathaniel Steven Olson." That was basically carte blanche to go into every nook, cranny, drawer and crevice in the apartment. And Terry intended to do exactly that.
He didn't expect to find much. Michaels was smart, and he was a lawyer. He should have been smart enough not to keep notes or to destroy them as soon as possible. He should have realized that a ballpoint pen would leave indentations beneath the top page of a legal pad, which could be read by lightly rubbing the paper with a pencil. He should have been too smart to keep four-point-eight grams of heroin, folded in a small square of aluminum foil, in the back of the locked top desk drawer. Michaels was smart, and he was a lawyer. But he was also arrogant.
Nat Olson's street name and address.
Logs of calls to and from Art Wallace.
Notes for a book exposing Grant Lawrence.
It was all there. Terry dialed the FBI communications center and asked to be patched through to Miri.
"We've got the son of a bitch," he said, quickly recounting the evidence they'd recovered. "There's nothing to indicate Youngblood knew anything. Like the senator said."
"Anything on the ransom drop?" she asked.
"I'm not sure. It looks like there's a list of three or four locations in D.C., and a couple in Baltimore. They could be call stations. No way to tell for sure, though."
"But you'll have teams out to cover them anyway," she said, a lilt of laughter in her voice. "I know you, Terry Tyson."
"Yes, you do. And yes, I will."
"Let me know," she said. "And stay safe."
"Anything I can tell the senator about his kids?"
Her voice dropped. "Nothing new. The younger one keeps looking out the window."
"If he hurts them…"
"You'll have to take a number and wait in line," she said. "But we won't let him hurt them."
"Okay, I'm headed back to the Lawrence house. I'll be on the senator when the ransom exchange starts."
"I didn't expect you'd be anywhere else," she said.
Something about the way she said that made him want to say the words she'd always longed for, the words he'd never been able to squeeze out. But this was an FBI frequency.
"Take care," he said.
"You too."
* * *
"Thanks," Jerry said, hanging up the phone. He turned to Grant. "That was Elaine Pragle. She'll get the floor vote pushed off a couple of weeks. She said, and I quote, 'I'll say the senator has a cold and is remaining home on the advice of his doctors."'
Grant tried to find a chuckle but couldn't. Trust Ellen to find a subtle way to spin anything that happened. She was paraphrasing Pierre Salinger, who told the press Kennedy had a cold to explain the president's cutting short a visit to Chicago during the Cuban Missile Crisis. He had long suspected that Elaine was the one who had planted the seeds of the Kennedy comparison. He supposed there was worse baggage to carry.
Grant stuck his chopsticks into the box of lo mein and pushed it aside. Detective Tyson had insisted they eat something, and Jerry had agreed. Chinese was the least revolting of the delivery options available. Grant had tried, but he couldn't force himself to eat. His stomach was a massive knot.
"Has anything changed up in Maryland?" he asked Terry.
The detective seemed about to answer, then paused, dropped a nugget of sweet-and-sour pork into his box and picked up the radio headset. He flipped the switch for the speaker. "Lips, this is Clam, over."
"Lips here." It was Karen's voice this time. "Tell him nothing's happening and to finish his dinner."
"I'll tell him," Terry said. "What's she doing?"
"Taking coffee to the guys," Karen said. There was a slapping sound, and Karen muttered a curse. "Y'know, if you think a stakeout in a car is bad, try doing it in a forest. I have bites in places that aren't places."
Terry let out a tense laugh. "Grind up an aspirin tablet and add water to make a paste. Stops the itch."
"If I confiscated every aspirin tablet from every guy on the team, there wouldn't be enough."
"Well, let me make a note in the log," he said. He checked his watch. "Eighteen-twenty hours. Lips Two is taking coffee to the guys. Lips One is getting eaten by mosquitoes. Clam One won't eat dinner. And everyone's nervous as a wet hen."
"That's about the size of it," Karen said. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think there was a reason you suggested that y'all be 'Clam' and we be 'Lips.' Doesn't the department have sensitivity training?"
He laughed. "Sure. But considering the jokes I've heard about clams…"
"Don't even go there. Lips is bad enough."
Terry looked at Grant. "I'll tell Clam One to get a better teenage memory next time."
"You do that," Karen said. "This is embarrassing. Tell me he's not hearing this."
"You're on speaker."
"Shit."
"Oops," he said.
Her voice changed in an instant. "Stand by one."
"Standing by."
Grant sat forward in his chair. "What is it?"
Terry wrapped his hand around the headset microphone. "No idea. You're hearing everything I am, Senator."
"Sorry," Grant said.
He knew that tone in Karen's voice. Something was happening. But what? It was maddening to sit here, trying to choke down Chinese food, unable to do anything. He rose and paced the room for what seemed like the billionth time. His knee was already starting to throb, whether from the pacing or the tension, he couldn't tell. Reminding him that the arthroscopic surgery wasn't totally healed yet.
"Clam One standing by," Terry repeated.
"Target passed by the window," Karen said. "I swear he looked straight at me. He was talking on a cell phone."
"Do you read lips?"
"Not at three hundred yards. By the time I got my binoculars in place, he was
hanging up." She paused for a moment. "Clam Three, call his home number."
Jerry nodded and dialed. The tension was evident in his eyes as he waited for the voice mail message to start.
"Put it on speaker," Terry said.
"What?" Karen asked.
"That was to Jerry. It's ringing now. Stand by, Lips."
"Standing by."
The same toneless voice kicked in. "Take the Metro to Union Station. Take the escalator up to the station. You will see a bank of pay phones to your right, at the top of the escalator. Go to the second pay phone from the left. You'll know what number to call. Come alone."
"Lips, we got the instructions." Terry relayed them quickly. "We're moving."
"Roger," Karen said. "Lips out."
Grant was already moving toward the door.
26
Terry stopped Grant before he made it to the door. "Slow down, Senator. You're not going anywhere without a wire. We'll hear whatever you say and anything people say around you. You won't hear us, though. The earpiece would be too obvious."
Grant nodded and tried to give a sheepish smile, wondering if it looked more a grimace. "I forgot."
"Take off your shirt. No reason this has to be obvious."
Grant complied and stood patiently while Terry taped the transmitter to the small of his back.
"Now," Terry said, "you're going to be watched every step of the way. I already have men at the locations on the list from Michaels' apartment. But Union Station isn't one of them. So as we go, I'm going to tell them where to be on the lookout next. I'll meet you at Union Station. I'll drive your car there. It's a rental, by the way. A Taurus. And it's got a GPS system. We're going to track you every step."
Grant nodded, then pulled on his shirt at Terry's direction.
"This thing has a sensitive mike," he said. "It'll pick up a whisper. I'll have someone on the train with you to Union Station. We don't have time to tap the phone, so you'll have to find some way to tell us what he tells you. If he asks you to get back on the subway, stall for time so I can get someone aboard."
Grant nodded.
"Okay," Terry said. "Hang on to your cool. Do exactly what he says unless one of my people intervenes, and that will only happen if there's serious trouble. Which means you can be sure your daughters are still okay, because if anything at all happens at the cabin, we're going to pick you up immediately."
Grant nodded again. Then said, "Thanks, Terry." His face was somber, but there was no mistaking his sincerity.
Terry smiled at him. "Trust me, Senator. There isn't a person on this team who wouldn't lay down his or her life to make sure you get your daughters back safely." He handed Grant the duffel bag. In it were stacks of cut newspaper, with a real bill wrapped atop each stack. It wouldn't survive a close inspection, but if Wallace or Michaels got that close, they would move in anyway. "Here's the ransom. Off you go."
* * *
"Tell you what," Art said, feeling more frazzled than he'd ever felt in his life. Usually these girls didn't trouble him at all, but today they were whiny. Bored. And Cathy Suzanne and her damn basilisk stare…
"When Belle and Cathy's dad gets here, we'll set up the tent outside for you girls to sleep in. How's that?"
It pleased them all…except Cathy Suzanne, of course. Her expression never flickered. There must be something wrong with that girl. Something wrong with her brain.
"So," he said, turning to the three younger girls, "why don't you go roll up your sleeping bags and make a survival kit?" Survival kit was the name he'd given to the tin box of cookies and treats they were allowed to take with them when sleeping outside. The three girls ran off happily, giving him a brief respite.
Except for Cathy. She just stood there looking at him.
He had to force himself to smile. "Don't you want to camp out?"
"When's Daddy coming?"
Art glanced at his watch. "A couple of hours."
"Is that who you called?"
"Yes."
Her mouth drew into a line. "Why didn't you let me talk to him?"
"Because he was busy. He only had a minute."
Again her gaze never flickered. But, much to his vast relief, she said, "Okay."
Then she went to pack for a camping trip.
It occurred to him that he didn't have to put up with her, that he could take her out into the woods this very minute and be done with the little bitch's attitude. The urge almost overwhelmed him.
But the other girls would get upset if Cathy disappeared, and he couldn't handle that. Besides, he assured himself, it would all get better once Grant was gone and they were out of here. Then Cathy would have no choice but to love him. No choice at all.
* * *
Karen was getting a headache from staring at the cabin, but she wasn't about to stop. A split second would be enough for things to erupt, for someone to get hurt.
Besides, she kept hoping for another glimpse of Cathy Suzanne. Moments later she was rewarded.
The girl appeared in the window where she'd been that morning. Karen came to alert and tapped Miri on the shoulder. Both women raised their binoculars to look.
For what seemed a long time, Cathy Suzanne stood at the window, staring out toward the woods, not moving. As if she were waiting.
Then, almost as if she were absentmindedly doodling, she began to draw her finger over the glass pane.
Karen felt sweat beading on her brow as she realized the girl was drawing letters. She couldn't quite…was that a P?
Then Cathy started again. It was reversed to Karen, but this time she was fully ready.
Shock rippled through her, and she drew a sharp breath.
H-E-L-P.
Cathy Suzanne knew she was in trouble. And more, she knew they were out here.
* * *
The Washington Metro was widely regarded as the best subway system in the country, perhaps in the world. Clean, safe, easy to navigate and convenient, it often led D.C. residents to wonder why so many people drove cars rather than riding the train around town. Of course, Grant thought with edgy irony, most of those people did their wondering while they were sitting in traffic jams.
He didn't ride the Metro often, he thought as he fed a five-dollar bill into the vending machine that issued fare cards. It spat out a card with a magnetic strip, on which was stored his balance. He ran it through the reader at the turnstile and stepped onto the train. He opened his wallet to put the fare card away and was not surprised to find another card already there, frayed and stained around the edges. He'd probably put it there a year or two ago, the last time he'd taken the train.
Seats weren't too difficult to come by at this time of night, although the car wasn't empty, by any means. He scanned the faces around him, trying not to be obvious in doing so. He didn't see Michaels, not that he expected to. Nor could he spot Terry's assigned shadow. He supposed that was a good thing. It meant the shadow was doing a good job of blending into the scenery. Still, it would have been comforting to know who to turn to if something went wrong.
The white-tiled walls of the tunnel swept past in a blur. He was on the Red Line, traveling southeast into the heart of the city. At the Metro Center stop, a dozen or so passengers got off or on, transferring to or from the Blue or Orange lines. At the next stop, Gallery Place, more passengers exchanged with the Green and Yellow lines. None seemed to pay Grant any undue attention. None of those who had remained on the train throughout seemed noteworthy. Terry's shadow was very good.
Two stops later, Grant stepped off at the Union Station platform and looked for the escalator to the Amtrak station. At the top of the escalator, he looked to his right. As the voice had said, the pay phones were there. He glanced around quickly and saw Terry standing at a news counter thumbing through the latest issue of U.S. News and World Report. Grant walked to the second pay phone from the left and looked around the tiny phone bay. It was written in black marker on the metal grill that surrounded the phone: For a good time, call
Grant. And a phone number. He dialed.
"You got started quickly," the voice said, suspicion evident.
"I want my girls back, you son of a bitch. I was calling that number every five minutes."
"Don't get cross with me, Senator. I'm in control of this. So just listen and do as you're told."
"I'm listening."
"Get back on the subway. Transfer to the Blue Line at Metro Center. Get off at Reagan National. Go to the USAir ticket counter. There will be a ticket waiting for you. Go now."
"Wait…."
There was a click, and the line went dead.
"Fuck," Grant said.
Terry glanced up quickly from the magazine, then went back to reading.
"Back to the damn subway," Grant said as he walked to the down escalator. "Sooner or later, I'm going to learn my way around this city. I'd be at the airport already if I knew how to read a map."
"You get used to it," a passing commuter said. She was a petite brunette, wearing a business suit and jogging shoes. "It takes a couple of days."
"Thanks," he said. "It's a confusing city."
She smiled. "Not really. North-south streets are letters, east-west streets are numbers, increasing as you move out from the Capitol. State-named streets are diagonals."
He nodded, trying to look as if he were soaking in the long-familiar information. "That helps," he said.
If she had any connection to Art or Michaels, it wasn't obvious. Just a friendly local commuter trying to help out a tourist. He didn't feel like socializing and was relieved to see her head for the northbound platform. He was headed the other way.
To Reagan National Airport and the next set of instructions. To his girls.
* * *
"My God, my God," Miriam said as Cathy disappeared from the window.
"I can't stand this." Karen pounded her fist once on the mossy, leafy forest floor. "That child must be scared out of her mind."
"But quick, very quick."
"Yeah. She must have seen someone move when she was looking out earlier."
