Phantom Limb

by Dennis Palumbo

  “Mr. Harland’s right, Arthur. Junior’s had enough. Time like this, we can’t get distracted. We have to stay focused.”

  But James kept his eyes on the family lawyer, who’d quietly returned his whiskey bottle to its place on the shelf.

  “Dammit, Arthur, pour me a fucking drink. I’m not a child.”

  “Then stop acting like one.” Drake stepped away from the bar and went to Charles Harland’s side. “This is a crisis, Jimmy, and your father needs us. All of us.”

  The old man looked up at him, offering a wan smile. “Thank you, Arthur. I can always rely on you.”

  “Yeah,” James said, to no one in particular. “Arthur’s a good dog. Such a good, good boy.”

  A tense, uncomfortable silence settled on the room. Only to be broken, to my surprise, by Agent Gloria Reese.

  “People, please. I appreciate that this is a difficult time for everyone. And I know how emotions can get churned up under extreme stress. But the only thing that matters right now is doing what’s best for Lisa. Concentrating on that.”

  Another long silence followed her words. During which she swept the room with her eyes, as if searching for confirmation from those assembled. Barney, adjusting his digital equipment. The Harlands, Senior and Junior, avoiding each other’s stares. Mike Payton exchanging guarded looks with Arthur Drake. Biegler, arms still folded. And me.

  Finally, Charles Harland stirred in his chair.

  “Agent Reese is correct. All that matters is getting my Lisa back. Nothing else.” A glance at James. “Nothing.”

  “Understood, sir,” Biegler added importantly. “And to do that, we gotta—”

  Gloria interrupted him. “Excuse me, Stu. If I may…?”

  Biegler’s jaw tightened, but he merely watched as the FBI agent crossed the room and sat on an arm of the couch, looking kindly down at Charles Harland. The movement, as well as her demeanor, seemed to catch him off guard.

  “Mr. Harland, can you tell us exactly what the kidnapper said to you on the phone?”

  He glowered up at her. “I already told you what he said. That he had my Lisa, and that she was unharmed. But if I wanted her to stay that way, I’d have to give him five million dollars in negotiable bearer bonds. When he got the money, and was safely away, he’d release my wife.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t to contact the authorities. And that he’d call again with the time and place of delivery.”

  Harland glared at his head of security.

  “Perhaps unwisely, I allowed Mike to persuade me to call Chief Logan. As well as the governor, to ask for the Bureau’s assistance. I can only hope Lisa doesn’t pay the price for that decision. If she does, I promise she won’t be the only one.”

  I have to give Payton credit. He stood, unflinching, for the duration of his boss’ less-than-subtle reprimand.

  After which Gloria said, hurriedly, “You did the correct thing in calling law enforcement, Mr. Harland. Both Pittsburgh PD and the Bureau have a great deal of experience dealing with crimes like these. Believe me, it’s never a good idea for people to attempt to deal with kidnappers on their own. It’s simply too dangerous.”

  In reply, Harland waved a shaky hand in dismissal and again twisted in his wheelchair. This time, I was on the receiving end of his hard, disapproving squint.

  “Perhaps, Doctor, now would be a good time to—”

  He didn’t get to finish the thought. All of a sudden, the two-way radio on Payton’s belt crackled to life. At a nod from his boss, he hurried out of the room, smoothly unhooking the radio as he went.

  “Hey!” Biegler called after him. “Wait a minute…!”

  He and Gloria Reese exchanged disgruntled looks. It wasn’t hard to guess why. This was supposed to be their case, their operation. Yet Harland and his head of security were acting as though they were in charge.

  I’ll never know whether either of them was going to risk challenging the old man about it. In less than a minute, Mike Payton had returned.

  “That was Breck, on guard duty tonight at the front gate. The armored truck from the bank has arrived with the bearer bonds. I told them to bring it up to the front of the house. Wait for our instructions.”

  Biegler frowned. “I assume this Breck guy and the truck driver are armed. Just in case.”

  “Yes. Trevor, too. He’s joining them. The perp’d have to be crazy to make an end run move on the truck.”

  “So we’re back where we started.” James gnawed pensively at a fingernail. “Waiting for this bastard to call.”

  Arthur Drake looked longingly at the wet bar. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”

  What threatened to be another tense, awkward silence was immediately dispelled by Charles Harland. Tapping his knuckles imperiously on his wheelchair arm, he called to his son.

  “James, since we have no choice but to wait, I’d like to be taken to the library. Dr. Rinaldi will accompany us.”

  As though tugged by an invisible wire, James reluctantly roused himself and shuffled sullenly toward his father. Meanwhile, the old man was smiling at my puzzled look.

  “As I was about to say, Doctor, before Mike received his call, I believe that now would be a good time for you and me to have a private conversation.”

  “If you’re hoping to discuss Lisa’s therapy session with me, that isn’t going to happen.”

  “Don’t worry, Dr. Rinaldi. I will instruct James to leave us once we’re safely behind closed doors. We’ll have all the privacy we need.”

  “I don’t think you’re hearing me…”

  “Despite my years, my hearing is perfectly fine. I can also assure you that I’m unaccustomed to losing when it comes to difficult negotiations. Sooner or later, we’ll arrive at a mutually satisfying arrangement.”

  “Look, Mr. Harland—”

  Suddenly, I caught sight of Gloria Reese, now standing just beyond the old man. Her face had turned ashen, and she was staring with alarm at something over my shoulder.

  “Barney!” she cried. “Freeze! Don’t move!”

  I whirled, as did everyone else in the room, all eyes falling on the young FBI tech. Stunned by Gloria’s panicked tone, he’d frozen where he stood behind the huge desk. Like a human statue, Barney kept his hands locked in position, unmoving, inches above the complex equipment on the blotter.

  Then, shifting only his eyes, he allowed himself to glance down at his left arm.

  We all did.

  There, as though some live thing, an ominous red dot was slowly moving up the sleeve of his sweater. Instantly, his face went as white as Gloria’s, and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. Slick, glistening.

  Payton was the first to find his voice.

  “It’s a laser point. Some kind of guided weapon is trained on him. Everybody stay where you are. Nobody fucking move!”

  “He’s right,” Gloria said. “Nobody move!”

  Nobody did, except for Biegler. I noticed he’d crouched behind the pool table. His service weapon was in his hand.

  Gauging the angle, I looked past Biegler and saw that the thin, almost translucent laser beam was streaming into the room from outside. Through the opened sliding glass doors. Its origin somewhere beyond the varnished porch. In the darkness.

  Payton must have seen the same thing I had.

  “Guy’s outside,” he said. “In the trees.”

  Arthur Drake forced out the words. “But it’s so far…”

  “High-caliber sniper rifle. Laser-guided. If it’s got a Reticle system, it’s accurate up to a mile. Maybe more.”

  “Oh God…” James Harland’s stricken voice was a gasp.

  I turned back to check on Barney. By now, the glowing red dot had settled in the middle of his forehead.

  As though having guessed the dot’s location, Barney gave out a lo
w, sickly moan. But still he did not move a muscle.

  Except for his eyes, blinking rapidly, frantically.

  Gloria kept her own voice measured, authoritative.

  “Everybody stay calm. Just don’t—”

  Abruptly, the red dot started moving again. Mesmerized, we watched it meander down the sweat-drenched front of Barney’s sweater. Finally settling on the chrome top of the recording equipment. On the desk, next to the phone console.

  Suddenly, the sharp, booming crack of a gunshot pierced the silence. Along with Barney’s anguished screams as he fell backward, the equipment in front of him exploding. Shards of metal, wire, and plastic flying.

  Now we were all shouting, ducking under chairs and behind tables. Scrambling for cover. Except for Payton, who took hold of Harland’s wheelchair and pushed it into the nearest corner, facing the wall. Bending, he shielded the old man with his body.

  At the same time, I rolled under the pool table, near where Biegler crouched. Waiting for the next shot.

  It never came.

  Ten seconds ticked by. Nothing.

  Then I spotted Gloria, across the room, huddled behind the massive couch. Her eyes didn’t meet mine. Gun drawn, her gaze was riveted on the opened glass doors.

  Another ten seconds of silence.

  Steeling myself, I crawled from my hiding place and went around the corner of the desk, where I found Barney. He lay cowering on the floor, covered in dust and slivers of metal, clutching his arm. Blood oozed from between his fingers.

  I quickly checked him over. He was hurt, but would be okay. I took a handkerchief from my jacket pocket and pressed it against his wound. The relieved murmurs of the others in the room assured me that nobody else had been injured.

  Meanwhile, the thunderous sound of the gunshot had long since faded, leaving only entrails of smoke curling up from the tangle of twisted metal and burnt wire.

  Until another sound—common, familiar—took its place.

  Mundane, but terrifying.

  The desk phone, undamaged.

  Ringing.

  Chapter Eight

  “Get off me and answer the goddamn phone!” Charles Harland shoved away his head of security with a surprising ferocity. “But first, turn me around.”

  Mike Payton stood to his full height, turned the old man’s wheelchair so that it was facing into the room, then hurried to pick up the phone.

  Behind the desk with Barney, I was close enough to hear a muffled voice coming from the phone, telling Payton to put it on speaker. He did.

  “Good evening.” The voice on the other end was metallic, otherworldly. The caller was obviously using some kind of voice-distortion device. Though it still sounded male.

  “As you can all see,” the voice went on, “the Feds won’t be tracing this call now.” A pause. “Though I trust the kid hasn’t been hurt too badly.”

  Barney gave me an astonished look, which probably mirrored my own. Putting my arm around his waist, I helped him carefully to his feet.

  By now, Biegler and Gloria had also come out from cover. As had Arthur Drake and James Harland, though the latter stood in a far corner, back pressed against the wall.

  The laser light had returned, its glowing scarlet point tracing a wandering path up and over the room’s furniture, and along the hardwood floor.

  “I told my associate merely to disable the equipment,” the voice continued, “but sometimes ricocheting bullets have a mind of their own. Sorry, Barney.”

  At this, Barney’s gaze changed from surprise to alarm. I didn’t blame him. How could the kidnapper know his name?

  I could tell from their faces that the same question had occurred to Biegler and Gloria. Joining Payton at the front of the desk, both still had their guns drawn, at the ready.

  “You called in the authorities, Mr. Harland.” The voice had an almost reproachful tone. “After I expressly told you not to. A grave miscalculation on your part. For those keeping score, let’s call it Strike One.”

  I glanced over at Harland, whose eyes burned like embers.

  “Listen, you cowardly piece of shit, do you really have my Lisa? Is she alive?”

  “Yes to both questions. As I’ll let her tell you herself.”

  There was a sharp, tearing sound. Probably duct tape. And a woman’s startled yelp.

  Then her voice. Choked, terrified, but defiant.

  “Charles! You gotta help me! Do what this motherfucker says or he’s going to kill me! He already—”

  “Lisa!” Despite his frailty, Harland looked as though he might jump out of his chair. “Are you all right? What did he—?”

  “That’s enough, Lisa,” said her captor. “They only needed what’s called ‘proof of life.’ You just provided it.”

  “Fuck you! I hope you burn in hell, you cocksucking—”

  A gruff, mirthless laugh. “Don’t get so excited, you’ll hurt yourself. Stop squirming.”

  “Then untie me, you slimy prick. I—”

  Suddenly, her words slurred into an enraged, muffled gasp. Her captor had obviously—and roughly—reapplied the tape.

  “Don’t worry, Harland,” he said. “She’s okay. But, Christ, your wife’s got a mouth like a two-dollar whore. I don’t know how the hell you put up with it.”

  “I swear, if you hurt her…”

  “Well, that’s up to you, Charlie. You don’t mind if I call you ‘Charlie,’ do you? Now that we’re getting acquainted. You can call me…oh, I don’t know…call me ‘Julian.’ I’ve always liked that name. Has a classical sound to it.”

  Gloria leaned in toward the phone’s speaker. “Since you’re so interested in being sociable, Julian, how about getting your guy to stow his weapon? It’s making everybody nervous.”

  “A reasonable request, Agent Reese. Let me see.”

  The speaker went silent. Perhaps so that “Julian” could contact his partner, the sniper in the trees.

  I must have guessed right, because the laser light abruptly winked off. Though the phone speaker remained silent.

  “Is he gone?” James whispered. A half-minute had gone by. “Why doesn’t he say something?”

  Biegler blurted out, “More important, how the hell does he know who we are?”

  Gloria let her gun hand drop to her side. “It’s apparent he can see us, somehow. Hear us, too.”

  “From those trees? I don’t care how good his sniper is, how powerful the sight. I don’t believe it.”

  “Besides,” I pointed out, “he seems to know our positions in the room. Including Mr. Harland’s, over at the wall. Nobody out in the trees could see all those angles.”

  Payton grimaced. “Nobody has to. This Julian—whoever the hell he is—has been watching and listening to us the whole time from inside the room.”

  “What?” Drake exclaimed. “But how—?”

  Payton pointed up at each of the two interior wall corners, at their junction with the ceiling. Small, insect-eyed video cameras hugged the shadows. Lenses glinting dully.

  “The security cameras,” he said. “With microphones. All over the residence, in every room. Including this one.”

  Drake looked unconvinced. “But aren’t they all controlled by the central security station, off-site?”

  “They should be, given what we pay the security company.” Payton shrugged. “But nowadays, a good hacker can ‘bot’ any video system remotely. This guy could be watching us from a van out on the street, or from a hundred miles away. Which means—”

  James Harland stepped forward, sighing heavily. “Which means, we’re all on a reality show from hell.”

  “Very clever, James.” That same metallic voice, coming from the phone speaker, as the laser point flickered on again. Flitting around the room like a predatory firefly, alighting on a chair or table, then drifting along a wal
l. But always in motion.

  “I discussed Agent Reese’s request with my associate,” Julian said, “and we decided to maintain the tactical advantage of keeping you all in his crosshairs. Sorry.”

  Gloria glanced at me, her voice low. “Jesus, this isn’t a kidnapping, it’s a paramilitary op.”

  I nodded. Whatever the hell it was, it was clearly well-planned and well-executed. By people with specialized knowledge and training.

  Julian spoke again, sharply. “Okay, Charlie, let’s get things moving. Has your bank delivered the bearer bonds?”

  Harland’s thin lips tightened. I could tell that being spoken to like this was more than an affront to him. It was actually disorienting. In its way, inconceivable.

  Finally, the old man found the words.

  “Yes. The money’s in an armored truck. Outside.”

  “Good. I want the bonds delivered in a plain, zippered suitcase. I’ll tell you the time and place. I don’t care who the courier is, as long as it’s a civilian.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, no cops or Feds make the delivery. You already disappointed me by calling them in. But this is as far as their involvement goes. The drop-off will take place where I’ll have a clear vantage point in all directions. If I see so much as an off-the-rack sport coat or an eight-dollar haircut, your wife dies.”

  Julian’s tone hardened. “And trust me, I’ll make sure it isn’t quick. Truth is, I don’t like her attitude. Not one bit. So it isn’t going to be a bullet in the brain. You understand? I can go through a whole round before hitting something vital. Could take her hours to die. Maybe a whole day, if I do it correctly. Am I making myself clear, Charlie?”

  Harland slowly nodded.

  “I can see that you’re nodding, Charlie. So I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Suddenly, Mike Payton growled something under his breath and reached inside his jacket. Pulling out an automatic pistol, he aimed it at one of the ceiling cameras.

  Drake called out. “Payton, no—!”

  The red laser point swept across the room in seconds, pinning itself on Payton’s shirt front. He froze, staring down at it with a mix of frustration and rage.