by Jason Starr
It was hard to focus for the rest of the day because she was so absorbed in replaying every second, every detail of her conversation with Tucker. A few times, teachers called on her in class, and she was lost and didn’t answer. One teacher—Dave, her chemistry teacher—talked to her after class. He asked her whether there was something bothering her lately, and whether the “situation you’re in”—meaning the protection order—was distracting her from her school work. She told him no, everything was fine, and that she’d be more focused tomorrow. But the truth was, all she cared about was Tucker McKenzie and what he would say to her, what she would say to him, and—most important—how it would make her feel.
Leaving school at a little past three o’clock, she hoped she’d accidentally run into Tucker. Well, it wouldn’t be an accident—she knew he would probably be out front—but she didn’t see him. She walked up the block and turned onto First Avenue, hoping she’d see Tucker there, when she saw the two men coming toward her.
At first she didn’t think anything was so weird about it. The men were rushing toward her and seemed very serious, but this was New York City. There were tons of people here and tons of weird things going on all the time. Maybe the guys were just in a rush and weren’t really coming toward her, just trying to get by her.
Then she saw that both men had guns, but she didn’t have time to be shocked or even scared—and, besides, the whole thing seemed totally surreal. It was only when one guy, the taller guy, fired the gun—not at Cassie, at someone behind her—that panic hit, but by that point it was too late to react, because the shorter guy had grabbed her and was forcing her into the back of a car. A woman—someone on the street—yelled, “Hey, over there!” and Cassie was thinking, Roger, oh my god Roger, but the big guy was already in the car next to Cassie, and he slammed the door, and the car sped away.
Before Cassie could scream for help, the shorter guy put something over her face, a towel or a rag. It was wet and had a strong, sweet odor. She struggled and screamed into it, “Let me go, please, please,” but he was still holding the rag over her mouth and nose, and she was getting spacey. Then she thought, Oh no, it’s like a movie, the stuff on the rag is making me pass out. She was feeling more dazed, maybe partly from panic; it was taking a lot longer than in the movies, but it was happening, it was definitely happening, but why? Why her? She knew it had to do with her father, with the reason for that stupid order of protection. She remembered asking her dad once why he wanted to be Ant-Man, like what he got out of it, and he had told her, “There are good and evil people in the world, and the evil people deserve to be punished.” Well, maybe she was an evil person, and she was being punished for what she’d done to Nikki, breaking her nose, and she was getting spacier from the stuff, knew her thoughts weren’t making much sense, but she kept thinking, Why? But why? And when she tried to yell for help again, she couldn’t even get her mouth to move.
And then everything went black.
ABDUCTED? What the hell do you mean, abducted? What’s going on?”
Scott and Carlos were in the elevator of the office building on Park Avenue South.
“It just happened,” Carlos said, “around the corner from her school.”
Scott was suddenly dizzy, lightheaded. He said, “This is a mistake, right? You mean you just can’t find her?”
“No, she was abducted. Roger’s been shot. But people got the plates, descriptions. We’ll get her back, I promise.”
Knowing this wasn’t like last time, that this was real, Scott asked frantically, “Is Cassie okay? Is she?”
“As far as we know, yes.”
As far as we know.
It was Dugan; it had to have been. Scott couldn’t remember ever feeling so terrified, so helpless. It was the exact opposite of the way a super hero should ever feel—but most super heroes didn’t have missing daughters.
“I guess that wasn’t Dugan’s body in that factory,” Scott said. “I guess you guys messed that up, too.”
“We don’t know whether or not it’s—”
“He’s alive,” Scott said. “You and I both know that.”
They exited the elevator when they reached the lobby. Scott grabbed Carlos by the shoulders and pushed him back against the wall. “I need to know exactly what happened. Right now!”
“I told you all I know, man. A car pulled up. Somebody shot Roger and took your daughter.”
“You were supposed to be protecting her,” Scott said. “That’s what this is all about. Can’t you guys do your damn jobs?”
“Something went very wrong…obviously,” Carlos said. “Our man is down. I’d suggest you let me go.”
Knowing there was no time to waste, Scott loosened his grip and rushed out of the building with Carlos. They got into Carlos’s Charger and, with the siren and strobe on the roof, made it to the Upper East Side in less than ten minutes.
In the car, Scott didn’t say anything. He was clinging to the slim hope that there had been some sort of misunderstanding, after all. He wasn’t ready to consider the possibility that Cassie was in danger, or worse. He hated feeling powerless, like a victim. He needed to be powerful, in control. He needed to be Ant-Man.
Any hope of a misunderstanding vanished when they approached First Avenue on Seventy-Sixth Street. The whole area had been cordoned off, and traffic was not being allowed through.
Scott exited the car. Behind him, Carlos said, “Hey, wait, where you going?”
Scott sprinted ahead, then weaved through the crowd until he reached the cordoned-off area near the avenue.
Scott had lifted the police tape and was about to duck under when a burly NYPD cop with a full-on Brooklyn accent said, “Hey, guy, you gotta get back.”
“She’s my daughter,” Scott said. “Cassie…the girl who was abducted.”
The FBI agent, Warren—the one who had come to his apartment the evening this whole nightmare began—was rushing toward them.
“It’s okay,” Warren said. “Let him through.”
Behind the tape, Scott said to Warren, “Was it Dugan?
“We don’t know yet for sure,” Warren said.
“Look, this is my daughter,” Scott said. “My daughter, okay? I don’t want your watered-down info. To hell with your protocol—you let this happen. I want to know what’s going on in Louisiana and here. Right now!”
“Look, I understand how upset you are,” Warren said, “but I’ve told you everything—I’m not holding back anything. As far as I know, the investigation into Dugan’s death in Louisiana is still going on. Rest assured, I’m doing everything I possibly can to return your daughter to safety.”
“Safety.” Scott sneered. “You’re doing a great job with that. What about witnesses? Anybody see anything?”
“Yes,” Warren said. “They’re still being debriefed, so there may be more info, but witnesses saw two men. One man shot Roger, and then they took Cassie. We have a preliminary ID on one of them, Ricky Gagliardi.”
Scott hated the way Warren had said “they took” Cassie. It sounded so unemotional.
“I know Gagliardi,” Scott said. “He worked with Dugan. That means Dugan’s involved.”
“Not necessarily,” Warren said. “Dugan’s guys could be working on their own. What do you know about Ricky Gagliardi?” Warren was suddenly interested only because—it was so clear now—his ass was on the line. Things had gone to hell on his watch. He wanted to find Cassie, all right—because it was the only way to save his job.
“I don’t really know him,” Scott said. “It was years ago—we know some of the same people.”
Scott wasn’t being entirely truthful. He knew Gagliardi, or “Gags,” pretty well, having pulled a few jobs with him and Dugan. Gags was a big dude, a musclehead. Nobody dared mess with him, which made him a valuable asset when the crew needed to intimidate somebody. Scott didn’t remember too much about Gags, but he didn’t recall hating the guy. For a criminal, Gags had a decent enough personality. He loved to pull pr
anks—part of the reason he had the nickname “Gags”—and he was a big movie buff, used to talk about Scorcese flicks a lot. He’d always seemed to like Scott—had laughed at his jokes, anyway. Scott never had a falling out with Gags, never testified against him, and this is what he does ten years later? How does a guy go from laughing at your jokes to kidnapping your daughter?
“What about the car?” Scott asked. “Anybody ID it, get a plate?”
“A witness, a pizza delivery guy, saw the whole thing,” Warren said. “We have a description of the vehicle, including license, but unfortunately the car was just found in the Bronx. Looks like they switched vehicles.”
Yeah, and they’ve probably switched vehicles two more times already, Scott thought.
Scott knew how Willie Dugan worked, and this situation was pure Willie Dugan. This was a man who had spent nine years building a tunnel to escape from Attica. He always worked out his plans to the very last detail. But what did Cassie get him? It wasn’t like Dugan to go after a man’s daughter when he could go after the man himself. If he was willing to gun down a federal officer, why hadn’t he just sent guys to shoot Scott and Carlos? Why bother with Cassie at all?
“How could you let this happen?” Scott said. “You had one job—to protect her.”
“And we did our best,” Warren yelled back. “We’re still doing our best. When people start shooting, there’s a limit to what we can do—whether we’re trying to protect your daughter or the president of the United States. But we’re doing everything we possibly can, using all available resources, to find your daughter. That’s our number-one priority.”
Scott was still furious at Warren, but he didn’t want to get into a blaming match right now. He needed Warren to be 100-percent focused on finding Cassie. Besides, Scott knew he wasn’t being entirely fair: He was the one who’d dismissed the threats from Dugan, who hadn’t believed Dugan would target him or his family.
“All right,” Scott said, “let’s just find her.”
Another agent came over and led Warren away. Scott spotted Carlos at the other end of the block, obviously looking around for him. Scott moved behind a parked SUV to avoid being seen as his phone rang. He grabbed it from his pocket during the first ring, praying it was Cassie, but it was Peggy.
Bracing himself, knowing hell itself was coming, Scott took the call and said, “You heard.”
“Please…” She was crying. “Please tell me it isn’t true.”
“It is,” Scott said, “but I’ll find her. I—”
“This is your fault!” she screamed. “Your fault!”
He’d only heard that a few hundred thousand times during his marriage.
“Look, this isn’t the time to blame—”
“Ant-Man,” she said. “Stupid Ant-Man and all your stupid secrets.”
“This has nothing to do with any of that,” Scott said, realizing this was a ridiculous statement. Then he added, “Are you alone right now?”
“See?” she said. “All you care about is your stupid secret—that’s all you ever care about.”
“Peggy, please, try to—”
“Calm down?” Peggy said. “You’re going to tell me to calm down? I knew I was making a mistake when I left Cassie with you. An excon! But I didn’t think you’d mess up this bad, Scott, I didn’t think you’d let anything…what’s this all about, anyway? I need to know.”
“Look, this isn’t the time—”
“I just want my baby back.” She was crying. “I want my baby to be safe.”
“Trust me…” Scott was getting emotional, too, felt warm tears sliding down his cheeks. He said, “I want the same thing you do. I promise you, I’ll get her back, and I’ll make whoever’s responsible pay for this.”
“I’ve had it with your promises,” Peggy said. “I’m coming to New York.”
“Don’t,” Scott said. “That’s a mistake. There’s nothing you can do for her here, and it’s safer to stay put.”
“I have to do something,” she said. “My baby needs me.”
Scott’s phone vibrated—an incoming text.
It was from a strange, non-New York City area code: 859. Could it be from Cassie? Had she gotten to a phone somehow?
“I have to call you back,” Scott said.
Peggy said, “Scott, don’t—”
He ended the call and tapped the message. It read:
If you want to see your daughter alive call back from a disposable phone in 5 minutes
Scott cursed loudly. A couple of cops nearby looked over at him.
Then another message from the same number:
NO COPS
Scott looked around frantically, wondering whether the person who’d sent the text was here, at the crime scene. Then Scott spotted Carlos passing through the crowd, searching for him. Scott needed to avoid Carlos. With the marshal around, it would be impossible to call the number in privacy.
Skirting the crowd and Carlos, Scott ducked into a drugstore a block away and got in line at the register where the pay-as-you-go phones were located. There were two people ahead of him—an older woman who was fishing in her purse for change to finish paying for her purchase, and a guy with long hair, glasses, and a backwards Brooklyn Dodgers cap.
Scott checked his phone—it had been three minutes since he’d gotten the text, so he had two minutes to buy the phone and call back.
The woman was saying, “I know I have another nickel in here somewhere.”
“Please, I’m in a huge rush,” Scott said.
“You’re gonna have to wait,” the clerk, a young guy, replied.
Again, Scott wished he were in his Ant-Man suit. While he hadn’t stolen anything in years, there were situations when shoplifting was permissible, and one of those situations was when your daughter has been abducted and you have two more minutes to purchase a phone to call the kidnapper. He could’ve gone behind the counter, removed a phone from the display, and left the store—hoping nobody noticed the odd sight of a phone carried by an ant-sized man.
The woman said, “Looks like I’ll have to break the dollar.”
When she finally finished her purchase, the guy in the baseball cap, noticing Scott’s agitation, said to him, “It’s okay, man, you can go ahead of me. No worries.”
Who said New Yorkers were unfriendly?
“I need one of those phones,” Scott said to the cashier.
“Which one?” he asked.
“Any one,” Scott said. “That one—right there.”
The cashier had to get a key from the manager to open the display case and take out the phone. Scott paid for it with a credit card, and then rushed out of the store. He went around the corner to Seventy-Fifth Street and ducked into the vestibule entranceway of a building.
He had a minute—or less, if whoever had texted had started timing when the text had been sent, rather than when it was received. Sweaty and frantic, Scott activated the phone as fast as he could, then dialed the 859 number.
Someone picked up.
LONG time no hear,” Willie Dugan said, “and just in the nick of time.”
Scott hadn’t heard Willie Dugan’s voice for many years—Dugan had opted not to testify and didn’t say a word in public during his murder trial. But there was no doubt it was him.
“I want to talk to her, right now,” Scott said.
“That’s rude,” Dugan said. “Haven’t spoken in years, and I get no chitchat? No what’s up, how you been? Aren’t you curious? Don’t you care what I’ve been up to?”
“Put her on right now, Willie.”
“Ooh, testy, aren’t we? What, you got anger-management issues now, Scott? You used to be such a calm guy, listened to Bob Dylan and Cat Stevens. Played a little acoustic, too, if I remember correctly.”
“Willie, just put her on the phone.”
“I’m sorry, she’s not available at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?” Willie laughed.
Scott had normal blood pressure, but now the top
number had to be one-eighty or higher.
“I swear,” Scott said, “if you hurt her, I will hunt you down and kill you.”
“Say that with an Irish accent, and you’ll sound just like Liam Neeson.” Dugan laughed again.
“I wasn’t joking,” Scott said.
“Oh, I didn’t think you were,” Dugan said. “So you’re surprised I’m alive? I mean, everybody’s been reporting me dead for days.”
“I’m not surprised,” Scott said.
“I don’t believe that,” Dugan said. “I know how you are—always Mr. Optimistic. Part of you wanted to believe I was dead, that this was all over, even if the smart part of you knew I wasn’t.”
“How did you do it?” Scott asked, figuring he had a better chance of finding out information from Dugan if he was conversational with him, kept him on the line.
“I’m kinda surprised they didn’t figure it out by now,” Dugan said. “I mean with all that fancy DNA equipment they have nowadays. I’m also surprised nobody reported Mulligan missing yet.”
“Mulligan?” Scott asked.
“Lawrence Mulligan,” Dugan said. “You remember, the judge who presided at the trial. You know, the one where you ratted on me.”
Now Scott recalled the name.
“Wait,” Scott said, “so you mean—”
“Yeah, I killed the bastard,” Dugan said. “He retired down to New Orleans. Lived alone, I guess that’s why nobody reported him missing yet. But I figured if I set it up to look like I was dead, it would give me a better chance of getting at you. Oh, and your little girl.”
“You son of a bitch,” Scott said. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”
“Whoa, Scotty, this isn’t like you at all.” Dugan sounded like he was enjoying this conversation. “I mean, you’re not some lowlife vigilante like that guy Castle. Ant-Man doesn’t kill people—he brings them to justice, right?”
