From his perspective behind the lens, Oliver’s features took on a murky-green countenance. The gunman peered through the night-vision scope, adjusted the weapons cheek piece, accounted for height, wind direction, and pitch. The high-tech composite rifle had been custom designed, specifically modified to suit his individual shooting style, physical build, and the most common posture he assumed when executing a hit. He removed the magazine from the weapon and inspected it for the second time, a professional habit. Satisfied, he locked it back into place, re-adjusted the scope, and turned on the muzzle flash protection system to avoid any overlight which might otherwise impair accuracy.
The tower itself presented an unexpected problem.
Despite its heavy steel construction and deeply anchored concrete footings, it swayed, perhaps by three or four degrees, but not enough to affect a kill shot. When the opportunity presented itself, he would factor in this minor nuisance. The scope, reliable to three hundred yards at starlight illumination or two hundred and fifty yards in absolute darkness, would be perfect for target acquisition under the circumstances. It was equipped with a laser target module, which placed an infrared crosshair directly on the image tube surface of the scope. Brightness was controlled with push buttons on its side. The gunman pressed the button up. As Oliver opened the car door, his features came into sharp fluorescent focus.
4
“WELL?” ELAINE ASKED.
“Nothing,” Oliver replied. He placed the cellphone on the dashboard, then glanced across the parking lot, once more surveying the broadcast tower and its service road. “Whoever was driving the van left it in a hurry. The engine’s still hot.”
“Maybe whoever owns it works up at the tower and was late for his shift. That’s why they were driving like mad. Just trying to get to work on time.”
“Could be,” Oliver replied. His preoccupation with the tower persisted. “But I don’t think anybody actually works there.” He held his wife’s hand. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, honey.”
“I really wish you hadn’t done that, Oliver,” Elaine replied. “You scared me half to death! Who knows what could have happened to you? Whoever drove that van may have had a gun or been running from the police. Then where would we be? In a matter of seconds, you’d be dead, and I’d be a widow. I don’t want that to happen to us, Oliver. The world is full of dead heroes. I’d prefer you not be one of them.”
“Of course. You’re right,” Oliver apologized. “From now on, I’ll let the police chase the bad guys. Deal?”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good,” Elaine said. She folded her arms, looked out the window. “We can watch the rest of the fireworks from up here.”
“I have a better idea,” Oliver said. He put his arm around his wife, pulled her close, kissed her gently on her forehead. “What do you say we head back home and set off a few fireworks of our own?”
As Oliver placed the key in the ignition, his cell phone rang. He answered the call. “Dr. Prescott speaking.”
“Beautiful night, isn’t it, Doctor? Sky is clear as a bell. Not a cloud for miles. And just look at those fireworks! Really something, aren’t they? Just exploding all over the place! It must cost a fortune to put on a show like that. What do you figure… fifteen, twenty thousand bucks? I can’t recall a Fourth of July show as spectacular as this one for a long time. Can you?”
Oliver struggled to place the caller’s voice. “Who is this?”
“I’m not surprised you don’t remember me. It’s been a few years. But I’ve never forgotten you.”
“Do you realize this is a private number?”
Elaine looked at him anxiously.
“Just listen to us, talking in circles,” the caller continued, his voice jeering, contemptuous. “This is no way for old friends to get reacquainted.”
“Old friends?”
“Perhaps skipping the formalities would be a good start. Yes, the more I think of it, addressing you professionally seems a little too formal. How about Oliver? May I call you Oliver? I suppose we could get real familiar and I could call you Ollie, but that might be overstepping the line a little, don’t you think? Before I forget, how are the wife and kids? What are their names again? Let me think for a minute. Oh, yes. Now I remember. Your wife’s name is Elaine. Quite a looker too, if you don’t mind me saying. And there were two kids. Both girls, right? Amanda and Claire. How are they doing? They must be just shooting right up there by now. Has Claire graduated from medical school yet?”
“Who the hell is this?”
The caller dismissed Oliver’s angry tone. “I bet she’s become quite a beauty too, just like her mother. Guess it’s true what they say then. The proverbial apple never falls far from the tree. You’re a pretty lucky guy, Ollie. Gorgeous wife. Big house. Successful practice. Fancy-ass Porsche. And to top it off, another doctor in the family soon. You’ve just got life by the short and curlies, don’t you? Pretty much everything a man could ask for.” He paused. “Such a shame about Amanda, though. Two years of waiting and wondering. Is she alive… is she dead? Not so much as a phone call, email, or text. But don’t worry. She’s quite alive. I’ve taken good care of her.”
A sudden rush of adrenaline seized Oliver. His heart banged in his chest, as though a thousand tiny scalpels were busy at work, cutting here, slicing there, leaving him gutted, speechless. He struggled to regain his senses as the caller’s words whirled in his mind.
“What did you just say?”
“Oh Ollie, please! No need to get yourself all worked up. Fair is fair, wouldn’t you say? You stole my life. I took your daughter. Seems like a fair exchange to me. But don’t worry. She’s fine. Grown into a lovely young woman. Hell of a lay, too.”
“You son of a...”
“Careful, Ollie. Now you listen to me! You took me from my family, had me locked away like an animal in a psychiatric hospital for five years. Five long, fucking years Ollie!”
Oliver’s mind raced to place the voice on the end of the line. Conversations and faces from the past flashed lightning-quick through his mind as he struggled to identify the voice. In an instant, his memory became clear.
“Krebeck. Joseph Krebeck.”
“Very good, Ollie. Nice to see you haven’t lost your edge.”
“I remember your case. But I thought you were dead. Killed in the hospital by another patient.”
“It was an asylum, not a hospital. Let’s be clear about that, shall we?”
“It was where you needed to be,” Oliver said. He recounted the details of Krebeck’s case. “You murdered three hundred people, Joseph. Every one of them died at your hand, directly or indirectly. You had them bathe in gasoline and rub paraffin over their bodies, then gave them some poisoned concoction in the name of Holy Communion and left them for dead. Then, while they lay writhing on the floor from the poison rushing through their bodies and begging for you to help them, you left your church. You nailed the doors and windows shut and set the place on fire. Remember the trial, Joseph? The testimonies from the families of the victims who followed your prophecy. Your failed prophecy? You were not their saviour, Joseph. You were their murderer. Nothing more, nothing less. It was a callous slaughter of innocent and misguided souls with you masquerading as Messiah.”
“I didn’t kill them. They gave themselves to a higher power. They sacrificed themselves willingly.”
“You lit the match.”
“I ascended them!” Krebeck screamed. “They were desperate for spiritual sustenance and I fed them. They were in a spiritual slumber and I woke them.”
“Where is Amanda, Joseph?”
Startled, Elaine looked at her husband. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Who are you talking to? What’s this about Amanda?”
Oliver motioned with his hand to quiet her. He couldn’t speak now. He had to focus on Krebeck and the information he had about Amanda.
“Somewhere you’ll never find her.”
5
<
br /> OLIVER KNEW HE had to keep Krebeck talking if he was to find out where the madman was hiding his daughter. He took a deep breath, steadied his voice.
“Give me back Amanda, Joseph. I’ll give you anything you ask for. What is it you want? Money? Name your price and it’s yours. I’m a very wealthy man. You know that. You have my word no one will ever know this conversation took place. Just bring my daughter back to me tonight. Back home where she belongs. If it’s my professional help you need, you’ll have that too. But for God’s sake, let’s talk about this. Face to face.”
“You just don’t get it, do you, Ollie? You have absolutely nothing of value to offer me. But I have everything of value to you.”
Time was running out. Every second that ticked by felt like an eternity, each minute more precious than the last. He was losing ground. Krebeck had the control, had the power… had Amanda. Oliver felt as manipulated as a marionette under the control of a master puppeteer.
“Can’t we talk about this? Come to an understanding? Where are you Joseph? Where are you now?”
“Watching you.”
Oliver looked around the parking lot. A small crowd had gathered near the observation deck, watching the fireworks while their children played nearby. No one in the crowd was using a cellular phone.
“What do you mean, watching me?”
“Look at your chest.”
Oliver looked down. A red dot followed a path upward from his waist, then stopped over his heart. Though he had never seen an infrared beam from the laser sight of a high-powered rifle, he intuitively knew what it was. He held his breath as the beam jumped to Elaine, inched up her neck, and stopped in the middle of her forehead. Innocently unaware of the bullet that lay between her and a single beam of light, Elaine stared at her husband, fixated on his conversation.
“Don’t do this, Joseph,” Oliver pleaded. “Take me, not her. I’m begging you. For God’s sake, please.”
“For God’s sake, Ollie? Just what the hell do you know about God?”
Got to keep him talking, distract him, Oliver thought. A few seconds. That’s all I need. Just give me a few more seconds!
Keeping his body still, aware Krebeck was watching Elaine through the scope and not him, Oliver moved his hand to the ignition, turned the key, started the car. The engine thrummed quietly. He had only one option to save them both from certain death. Krebeck would kill Elaine. There was absolutely no doubt about that. In a matter of seconds he would pull the trigger, and Oliver would watch his wife’s head explode before his very eyes.
“You asked me what I wanted, Ollie,” Krebeck said.
Oliver slipped the car into gear, engaged the clutch.
“Yes, Joseph. Anything you want. Name it. It’s yours.”
“I want to see your expression.”
“What expression would that be, Joseph?” Oliver braced his foot over the gas pedal and stared at Elaine, watching the death dance of the tiny beam of light as it moved across her brow.
“I want to see the look on your face when I blow your wife’s brains out.”
Oliver slammed the accelerator pedal to the floor, let out the clutch. The Porsche tore away from the parking spot as Krebeck fired. The passenger window blew out.
Elaine screamed. “My face!”
“Get down!” Oliver yelled. He threw down the phone, grabbed Elaine by the back of her neck, and pushed her head down as he tried to protect her from Krebeck’s next bullet. Elaine brought her hand to her face, drew it back, and screamed. Blood ran in rivulets from the bullet-torn gash, covered her hands. Her cheek hung open, scored to the bone by the bullet.
“That explosion,” Elaine cried. “I think I’ve been… shot!”
“For God’s sake, stay down!” Oliver yelled. He wrestled with the steering wheel as parents ran for their children and pulled them out of the way of the speeding car. The Porsche raced out of the parking lot and hurtled down the canyon road.
Cursing the sudden, unexpected sway of the tower, Krebeck re-focused the night scope on the spectral-green image as it rounded the turn. From his station on the tower his view was unimpeded. Sharpening the focus of the scope, he zeroed in on the left rear tire and concentrated. This time there would be no chance for error. He had become one with the gentle sway of the tower, the speed of the car, the balance of the weapon, and the firestorm seething within.
All factors were completely under his control now.
Wind.
Trajectory.
Target acquisition.
Range.
Rage.
Two cars were on their way up the canyon road, which he approximated to be at least ten seconds away from the Porsche. He squeezed off a second round. The bullet found its mark, shredding the left rear tire. Through the scope he watched the sports car swerve violently, first to the left, then right, back to the left, then right again until finally it broke through the wooden guardrail, launched off the cliff into the air, and disappeared from view. Seconds later, a spectacular orange fireball exploded up the side of the cliff from the shoreline below. Offertory tendrils of acrid gray smoke swirled skyward in silent, ritualistic procession, a stark contrast to the welcome glitter-dance of green, yellow, pink, red and white raining down from the night sky.
6
CARS SKIDDED TO a stop as the Porsche broke through the barrier ahead of them. Panicked drivers and passengers leaped out of their vehicles and swarmed to the broken barricade in a vain attempt to help the victims below, only to be pushed back by the rancid smoke pouring up from the twisted, burning wreckage.
No one would have heard a sound, Krebeck thought as he unscrewed the silencer from the barrel, disassembled the weapon, and returned each section to the knapsack. He turned off the phone, placed it in the gym bag, and picked up his belongings.
He stopped periodically as he descended the tower, being careful not to draw attention to himself. Both the fireworks display and the commotion over the horrific crash provided substantial cover for his exit. Upon reaching the base of the tower, he walked down the service road to the van, threw the bags on the passenger seat, and drove out of the parking lot. As he rounded the corner, he saw the frenzied commotion at the fractured barrier half a mile down the hill. When he had reached the site of the crash he stopped, rolled down his window, and motioned to a young man with spiky green hair and tattered jeans standing at the side of the road. The youth walked over to the van.
“What’s going on?”
“You didn’t see it? Man! Some dude in a Porsche just did a half-pike off the cliff. Totally did himself in.”
“Is anybody alive down there? Have the police been called?”
The kid shrugged. “Some guy called it in on his cell phone. No point, though. Ain’t no way anybody could have survived that drop. Gotta be almost three hundred feet to the bottom.” The kid sighed. “What a way to go.”
“Yeah. Guess you never know when your ticket’s gonna get punched.”
“Damn straight.”
The faint sound of sirens from approaching emergency vehicles rose in the distance.
Krebeck rolled up his window and glanced in his mirror as he drove off. Thick smoke continued to pour up the cliff. As he continued down the canyon road, he pulled over on the narrow shoulder to give the police cars and fire trucks plenty of room to pass.
He turned on the radio, tuned in a jazz station, turned up the volume. Trumpets blared to the classic sound of Glen Miller’s, ‘In the Mood’.
He strummed his fingers to the beat. “Goodnight, Dr. Prescott,” he said quietly. “Sweet dreams.”
At the foot of the canyon road, he rounded the corner and disappeared into the night.
7
FIVE YEARS LATER
AT SEVENTEEN MINUTES past six, Claire closed the door behind her last patient of the night, Walter Pennimore, an accused child molester now living a life of seclusion. He had been granted his freedom, despite Claire’s written objection to the parole board. His reporting cond
ition required he attend two sessions per week with her, during which she delved into the most perverse corners of his mind and attempted to exorcise the demons that troubled him. Claire knew they were not demons at all, but an irrational hunger that needed to be sated; the deliberate actions of a man-wolf released into a wilderness of naïve prey.
Leaving the clinic after a session with Walter always left Claire feeling uneasy. The underground parking lot, three levels deep, was accessible from the main elevator. High-tech security cameras monitored her every step from the lobby to the parking area. Claire’s car was parked on the lowest level, L3. The security guards at the gated entrance to the lot always kept a faithful eye on the monitors, which added to her sense of protection. But the knowledge that Claire harbored about patients like Walter Pennimore and their unpredictable state of mind made her acutely aware of the monsters within the men. All the video cameras and security guards in the world would be of no help to her if one day one of them should snap.
Claire watched the bright green numbers on the elevator display panel change as it descended to the third floor. She jingled her car keys nervously, twirled them in her hand, then interlaced them between her fingers. As the elevator came to a stop, her silver-brushed reflection dissolved with the separation of the doors.
The Vanishing Page 2
