Phantom Limb

by Dennis Palumbo

  “He needed you there to put you on the phone. He had to demonstrate proof of life for your husband.”

  “Yeah. It was weird, too. Watching you and all the others in Charles’ study. Sykes was able to see into every room in the house on those monitor screens.”

  Then I remembered something else.

  “You said you tried to escape once. What happened?”

  “It was the night before this. I’d spent all day loosening the ropes around my wrists. All I had to do was wait. I saw my chance when the tattooed guy went up the ladder to take a leak. Dumb-shit left the trapdoor open. I freed my hands, untied my legs and went up to the room. Nobody was there, and Tattoo was still in the adjoining bathroom. So I bolted out the door into the woods. And suddenly realized I didn’t know where the hell I was, or how to get out of there. Sort of like the same plan you had, Rinaldi.”

  “I told you, I didn’t have a plan. Things just happened.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, Tattoo must’ve discovered I was gone and called his boss. Meanwhile, I spend hours wandering around the damn fields and trees until I collapse in some ditch. Finally Sykes, along with Griffin and Tattoo, find me. After they drag me back to the cellar, Griffin slaps the shit outta me, then they tie and gag me again. That’s it. Not exactly The Great Escape, but then I didn’t have Steve McQueen helping me out.”

  “It was still a brave thing to do.”

  “For all the good it did me.”

  I gave her story some thought. It explained what had made Sykes and his men leave the printing factory so quickly. After the tattooed man had found Lisa missing, he’d panicked and called his boss there. Interrupting our interrogation.

  Then Lisa abruptly spoke again.

  “Now I have a question for you, Doc. Though I don’t know if you can even answer it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s about this Griffin ape grabbing me outside your office. How the hell did he know where I’d be? The only one who knew I was considering seeing you was—”

  She stopped, eyes going wide. “Goddamnit! It was Mike! My God, I can’t believe it. Not him…Not when we’d been so…”

  Her voice fell, softening. Layered with hurt and betrayal.

  “He must’ve told Charles that I’d asked him to check up on you. And after I made him promise to keep it secret…”

  “I’m afraid that’s not all, Lisa. He gave your husband a copy of the dossier he’d prepared on me. And Arthur Drake was in the room when he gave it to him.”

  “Drake? Figures. Charles’ expensive scut-monkey. His only confidante. That pompous, Ivy League shit.”

  Something about the vehemence in her voice made me suddenly protective of Drake. Of his memory. His sacrifice. So, taking a long breath, I made myself say the words.

  “Listen, Lisa…I think you should know. When Sykes called the house earlier today, demanding the additional ransom, Drake insisted on being the one to deliver it. Then, once we met up with Griffin, Drake refused to hand over the money until he knew you were safe. Unharmed. It cost him his life.”

  “Wh-what…?”

  “Griffin shot him. Killed him on the spot, with no more thought than he would have swatting a fly. If Sykes hadn’t suddenly distracted him, I’d be dead, too.”

  “Arthur Drake is…he died for me…? Shit, now I have to feel guilty about him, too. Another black mark in the book of my stupid, selfish life.”

  She grew quiet again.

  “I am sorry to hear about him, Doc. I mean it. Or at least as much as I mean anything.”

  “I don’t know, Lisa. I get the sense that you feel things deeply. Very deeply. And that you always have. Underneath.”

  She snorted. “Way underneath.”

  Her defenses were up again. Not that I blamed her. Not after the events of the past three days. And the new realization that Mike Payton, her former lover, had broken his promise. Had chosen loyalty to Charles Harland over loyalty to her. So I said nothing more.

  We both sat, vague outlines in the sepulchral dimness, listening to the sad song of the rain.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  It didn’t take long before Lisa dozed off. Emotionally and physically spent, she slumped against the cave wall, head lolling. I slipped out of my jacket and lay it across her like a blanket, hoping it might help ease the chill. Then I sat back, folded my arms, and watched her sleep.

  Until, soon after that, I drifted off myself.

  When I woke suddenly, just after sunrise, I was still sitting with my arms crossed. Every joint in my body felt stiff, every muscle ached. It was as if every one of my forty-plus years wanted to be heard from. And acknowledged.

  Since Lisa was still asleep, I rose as quietly as I could and stretched. Then I made my way carefully along the cave wall to the entrance, the small opening now suffused with a clear dawn light. The rain had stopped. At the mouth of the cave, I looked cautiously out at the sun-spackled morning, the hills webbed with rivulets of rainwater, the trees crowned with glistening, dappled leaves.

  Craning my neck around, I tried to catch some sign of our pursuers from the night before. Griffin, or the tattooed man. Or Sykes himself. But I saw nothing. No men prowling the fields and the edges of the grove. Nor the van, which I half-expected to see parked on the gravel in front of their hideout.

  I knew this didn’t mean that Sykes and his men were definitely gone. They could, of course, still be in the area. Yet some part of me was convinced they’d left. With the second suitcase of money in hand, and Lisa and me on the run, they’d probably decided to just take off with the cash. Get as far away as possible, before Lisa and I managed to contact the authorities. After which an army of cops and Federal agents would be swarming over the place, looking for them.

  I heard a slow cadence of footsteps behind me. It was Lisa, coming to join me at the cave opening. In the light, I saw the toll the past three days and nights of terror had taken. Her clothes were torn, streaked with dirt and blood. Her face and arms bruised, crisscrossed with scrapes, raised welts. Her hair was disheveled. Eyes haunted, crusted with fatigue.

  She offered me an unconvincingly brave smile.

  “Present and accounted for, sir.”

  I took hold of her shoulders. “How are you doing?”

  “If that’s code for ‘Jesus, you look like shit,’ let me just say, you could use a makeover yourself, Doc.”

  Over her protests, I left Lisa tucked safely in the rear of the cave, with instructions not to move until I returned. Then I spent the next hour scrambling over rocks, slogging along damp gullies, and trudging up steep ridges, seeking the best vantage point. Or at least a good enough one.

  Luckily, I came upon an outcropping with an expansive view of the surrounding area. Squinting against the sun’s glare in the east, I spotted a thin sliver of highway. About three miles away, it ran past a cluster of shops, gas stations, and fast-food joints—what passes for modern civilization in most parts of the country nowadays.

  That said, I was never so happy to see the Golden Arches in my life.

  ***

  By noon, Lisa and I had reached the small town’s main street. I used a gas station pay phone to call the local cops, then bought us some sandwiches at a mom-and-pop diner while we waited for them. Though her captors had fed her intermittently, she seemed undernourished and still quite dehydrated. I knew I wouldn’t feel confident about her condition until a doctor had checked her out.

  When the town uniforms arrived, I quickly filled them in about Lisa’s kidnapping and Arthur Drake’s murder. I also gave them a description of Sykes and his men.

  At first, the two cops were skeptical, but came around when I showed them my Pittsburgh PD credentials. The Department had given me a wallet ID when I signed on as a consultant. It also didn’t hurt that both Lisa and I looked like we’d been in a war.

  When I o
ffered them a rough idea of where Sykes had been keeping Lisa a prisoner, one of the cops announced that he knew the place. As it turned out, Lisa had guessed correctly. The old building had once been a field office for a mining company.

  The cop then called for backup and went barreling toward the hills. Meanwhile, his partner borrowed the diner owner’s pickup to drive Lisa and me to the county station. Once there, I called first the Pittsburgh PD, then the FBI.

  To say that both law enforcement agencies were relieved to learn that Lisa was alive and free would be the understatement of the year. Especially elated was Lieutenant Biegler, to whom I’d asked to be patched through. It was obvious he couldn’t wait to hang up with me and call Chief Logan with the good news.

  Unfortunately, Lisa adamantly refused to be examined at the local hospital. So I got on the phone with Special Agent Wilson at the Federal Building downtown, asking that he arrange for a helicopter to fly us home. After which, Lisa could be taken to Pittsburgh Memorial, where, still unbeknownst to her, her husband Charles was being treated in the ICU.

  ***

  Wilson came through. After a short though bumpy flight, we were met at the airport by a Federal unmarked, then driven straight to the hospital. Pittsburgh PD was there waiting for us, as well as a rep from Victims’ Services. She had nondescript but fresh clothes for Lisa and me, so we could shower and change after our respective medical examinations.

  Lisa went first. A stoic uniformed officer at my side, I sat in the ward lobby while she was in with the doctor on call. Taking out my cell, I used the time to call my Monday patients to cancel their appointments. I had enough experience with the Department—and the FBI—to know that given the high-profile nature of the case, they’d both probably want to have me available throughout the day tomorrow for questioning.

  I’d just left a message for the last patient when the physician who’d examined Lisa came in. He was young, handsome, arrogant. He said that Lisa was in surprisingly good shape, and could be allowed to speak briefly with the authorities.

  Then he crooked a finger at me. “Okay, Dr. Rinaldi. You’re next.”

  ***

  Though Lisa had been transferred to a spacious private room—ironically, in a wing of the hospital donated by her husband—it was still pretty crowded in there.

  In addition to myself—showered and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt (both too big), and sporting bandages to cover various cuts and abrasions—Lieutenant Biegler, Harry Polk, Mike Payton, and Agents Anthony Wilson and Gloria Reese all stood in a semi-circle around Lisa’s bed.

  She herself had multiple bandages on her arms and face. She’d also been given an IV drip, probably to combat the dehydration. It wouldn’t have surprised me if a strong pain reliever had been added to the mix.

  Her face was pale, pinched, as would be expected after what she’d been through. However, before I entered the room, I was told that she’d just been informed of her husband’s condition and that he was here, in this same hospital. Despite her long-soured feelings about him, it had to be a shock. Another one, I thought, in a recent string of them.

  I’d no sooner pushed through the door and been guardedly greeted by the others than Biegler’s cell rang. While he took the call, Gloria Reese and I exchanged somewhat awkward looks.

  I realized then that we hadn’t had a moment to talk since our own abduction two nights before.

  Biegler hung up and turned to Agent Wilson. As though what he had to report wouldn’t concern the rest of us. God, he could be a condescending prick.

  “That was the state police. They’ve searched the old mining office. Say it looks like some kind of makeshift control room. They’re also combing the surrounding area. So far they found two bodies. One has been identified as Arthur Drake, shot in the head and left in a grassy field. The other deceased male was found in the cellar of the mining office. Also shot in the head. Guy was covered in tattoos. Real ‘Aryan Nation’ stuff. According to his driver’s license, his name’s Fred Gilroy.”

  Lisa looked up at him. “That was the creep who kept an eye on me in the cellar. When the others were gone.”

  “Griffin probably killed him, too,” I said. “Payback for letting Lisa escape.”

  “Or else simply one less loose end to deal with,” Gloria offered. “One less guy to cut in on the ransom money.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I’m betting that long-haired guy from the print factory doesn’t have much of a shelf life, either. Now that Sykes has the cash.”

  Wilson spoke to Biegler. “Did the state forensics people find anything in Julian’s control room? Prints? Hair or fibers?”

  “They just got there, so it’s too soon to get a detailed report. But prints, yeah. Plenty.” He referred to a notepad on which he’d hastily scribbled during his phone call. “But forget this ‘Julian’ bullshit. Might as well call him Ray Sykes. His prints are all over the room. Others, too. All in the system. Max Griffin, that Gilroy stiff, and somebody called Tommy Ames. Griffin and Sykes are known associates. Go way back.”

  “Believe me, Lieutenant, the Bureau knows all about Raymond Sykes. Max Griffin, too. The two met in the service. Served together in Afghanistan. Sykes led the outfit, and Griffin was their best marksman. Expert sniper.”

  “Probably the guy out in the trees with the laser scope.”

  Wilson deigned to nod. “Probably, yes.”

  Gloria looked over at me. “If Gilroy is the one with the tats, then the long-haired perp we encountered the other night must be Tommy Ames.”

  Biegler grunted. “Who cares? According to their jackets, Ames and Gilroy are just a couple of bottom-feeders. Local talent that Sykes must’ve brought in to help with the job.”

  He flipped the notebook closed. “But what we need is a line on Sykes and Griffin. Maybe we’ll know more when the state techs make a full report.”

  “Which will hopefully be expedited.” Wilson cleared his throat. “I spoke to the director right before I got here. In consultation with the governor, it’s been decided to send a Bureau forensics team to the crime site. To pitch in.”

  Biegler stiffened. “We could also send the Department’s CSU techs out there. Not our jurisdiction, but…”

  “No need.” Wilson smiled. “Our team’s already en route. It’s not about stepping on anybody’s toes, Stu. It’s about bringing these perps to justice. We all want the same thing.”

  Like hell, I thought. I’d heard the Bureau was still upset that it was Pittsburgh PD who bagged the killer last winter in the Jessup case. So they sure as hell weren’t going to let the Department garner even more accolades by bringing in Lisa Campbell’s kidnappers. Since her case didn’t fall under the FBI’s jurisdiction, they’d been called in by the powers-that-be merely to advise. How sweet would it be, then, to actually make the collar themselves?

  A quick glance in Harry Polk’s direction confirmed that I wasn’t alone in my thinking. Standing just behind Wilson, Polk was clearly scowling at the imperturbable agent. And he didn’t seem to care who saw it, either. Forbidden to smoke in the hospital, Harry had just popped another stick of gum in his mouth. And was chewing furiously.

  Seemingly unconcerned with the rising tension in the room, Agent Wilson stepped closer to Lisa’s bedside. Smiled coolly down at her.

  “Now, Mrs. Harland…”

  “Call me Lisa.” She eyed him warily.

  “Very well. Lisa. The doctors say we can only talk for a few minutes, so I wonder if you can just tell us a little bit about what happened? There’ll be plenty of time to take a more detailed statement when you’re feeling better.”

  Once again, I was reminded that Lisa Campbell had been an actress. Without a trace of guile, she told Wilson that she’d come to therapy with me to deal with her growing depression. And that she was terrified when the man we now know as Max Griffin appeared outside my office. After knocking me out,
Griffin put a gun to her ribs. Threatened to kill her unless she went with him quietly. Once at her car, he chloroformed her. When she awoke, she found herself in a dank dirt cellar, tied up and gagged.

  She did make one escape attempt, she explained, but only got as far as the woods. Soon her captors found her and dragged her back to the cellar, where she was beaten and then once more restrained and gagged with duct tape.

  I watched her performance in silence. Lisa not only lied about Griffin threatening her with a gun. She’d also left out her affair with Mike Payton, the gang-rape at the old printing factory, the encrypted file containing the video of her assault, and the Four Horsemen. Further, she neglected to mention what James told her he planned to do with the video. How he intended to screen it before Charles Harland and his fancy guests at next month’s anniversary gala.

  Of course, I understood her reluctance to share all these humiliating details with the authorities. Nor would I share them. As far as I was concerned, I remained Lisa’s therapist of record, which meant I was bound by doctor-patient confidentiality.

  By this point, Biegler had joined Wilson at Lisa’s bedside.

  “I can tell what an ordeal this has been for you, Lisa, but I do have some follow-up questions.”

  I stepped forward. “They’ll have to wait, Lieutenant. Lisa’s said enough for now. She needs her rest.”

  Agent Wilson stared at me. “I’m not through questioning her, either, Doctor.”

  “Actually, Agent Wilson, you are. As Lisa’s therapist, I insist on it.”

  As if on cue, Lisa’s pale hand went to her bandaged brow. Fingers trembling. “Yes…please…I am really tired.”

  “The Doc’s right.”

  It was Mike Payton, speaking firmly from the other side of the bed. He gazed down at Lisa with concern. “She’s told you enough. Hell, we know who the perps are. You two should be out there trying to find them, not hassling the victim.”

  Biegler’s face darkened. “We are looking for them! We’ve put out a nationwide alert. Sykes and his guys are in the wind, so it won’t be easy. But we’ll get it done.”