He pulled into shadow, flipped open his phone, and turned it on. It was the graveyard shift; there was certain to be a number of detectives bored at their desks, counting the minutes. He wanted two pair of plainclothes backup in unmarked cars. He wanted them now—right this minute.
If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.
He closed the phone, feeling better about his decision.
At that moment, a red Honda blurred past, slowed, and pulled to a stop a quarter mile past the U-Stor-It. Daphne had a red Honda, but for once he uncomfortably had to acknowledge the role of coincidence.
When a female form hurried from the car, Boldt, recognizing that particular female form even from a hundred yards away, realized his plans had changed again.
Backup be damned. What the hell was she up to?
Boldt began to run toward her.
68
Ben had cowered in his hiding place while the Face walked over to the fence, grabbed hold, and shook it. It rattled loudly, at which point he glanced around the facility, surveying it. He seemed to know.
He patrolled the place then like a soldier, walking along the first row of storage units, occasionally leaning an ear against one of the doors, passing not twenty feet from Ben, who held his breath, his one good eye fixed on the man in full concentration. The man with the strange face walked on by, his attention seemingly attached to the storage units. A few minutes later he rounded the far corner, and Ben guessed he was going to check each and every row of units—there had to be ten or fifteen of them total.
He didn’t dare make his break for the fence with the Face out patrolling. It wasn’t until several minutes later, when he heard the same sound of a garage door opening and shutting, that he decided the man had gone back inside his unit. Ben waited another several minutes, every pore of his skin alert for the slightest activity. Nothing. But then a feeling of dread came over him. What if the garage door opening and shutting for the second time was a trick? What if the man had done it to fool Ben into thinking it was safe to make for the fence? What if that was exactly what he wanted?
The possibility froze Ben where he was, about dead center between the two fences, both feeling miles away.
It was only as Daphne’s red Honda pulled past out front—missed the place!—that Ben realized it was time to do something. He ran toward the fence, but only about fifteen feet before stopping, hiding once again in shadow.
Where was the army of cop cars like in the movies? he wondered. The helicopters? One car? Daphne, alone? Had 911 screwed up the message?
And what if the man with the Face was in fact in hiding, waiting for whoever had climbed the fence? What if he saw her? What then?
There was only one thing to do, Ben decided: He had to make his move right away, before the whole thing came apart.
He couldn’t see her car, but he cut to his right, away from the gate, as far away from his last sighting of the man as possible, around the office, past an unmarked building, around that corner—and straight into a pair of arms that gripped him like a vise. Daphne! he thought. But then his brain quickly adjusted to the strength of those arms, and he looked up into the white, shiny skin and hollow eyes of that face and his world began to spin. A deep blue haze crept in from the edges of his vision, like the end of a cartoon where the screen collapses to a center speck of light. For Ben, the end of that light, the beginning of total darkness, came as a dry wind issued from the throat of the man who held him. “You?” the voice gasped, as if he too had seen a ghost.
69
When Boldt crept up on Daphne, he scared her half to death. She lifted off the ground from a squatting position ten yards away from the southeast corner of the storage lot where she hid behind a beat-up U-Haul trailer with two flat tires.
It took her a full fifteen seconds to recover. She hissed at him angrily, “I might have shot you.”
Boldt disregarded the comment, his attention fixed on the facility. “I didn’t use the radio,” he said, “so you didn’t pick it up there.”
“It was Ben,” she explained, solving the puzzle for him. She told him about the call from Emergency Services.
“He’s in there?” Boldt asked incredulously. The kid seemed to have a knack for trouble, especially where Jonny Garman was concerned.
She pointed off into the darkness. It took Boldt a moment to spot the bicycle on its side, tucked under another decrepit trailer. He had seen that same bicycle in the shed behind Santori’s. “The metal on the wheels is still warm,” she said, reminding him that she had a lot of cop in her to go along with the psychologist. “He claimed in his message that he had followed Garman here,” she whispered angrily. She seemed ready to cry. Boldt knew that feeling.
“In there?”
“Nine-one-one ID’d the call location as a pay phone at this address.” After a long silence, she said, “Tell me he didn’t do this, Lou. Why would he do this?”
Boldt, staying focused, tried to follow the logic. “If he had come back out, he’d have taken his bike, which means he’s in there somewhere. And if Garman is in there too, who knows what we’ve got going?”
“I’m going in.”
“Ridiculous,” Boldt snapped. The look she gave him could have stopped traffic. “Come on! This is textbook. We don’t make the pick on his turf. We wait him out, put up a net, take him on neutral ground.”
“Who cares about him?” Daphne asked. “I’m talking about Ben. Are we going to wait for Ben too? Is that in the textbook? He’s in there—either playing hero or afraid to come back out. Either way, for his safety, we have to get him out of there. And right now! Anything less than that and we invite a hostage situation. Anything less than that and Phil Shoswitz will never glue this back together.”
“This isn’t about Shoswitz.”
“With the mind-set of a Jonny Garman, we do not want a hostage situation, believe me.” She added spitefully, “And I will not have Ben at the mercy of an ERT rescue attempt.”
The battle lines had long since been drawn between the department’s psychologist, who believed in talking through an incident, and ERT, which believed in quick, efficient strikes. There were marks on both sides of the scoreboard; each solution had its place. But Daphne Matthews was outspoken and one-sided on the issue. Boldt was not about to debate it with her.
She worked his paternal emotions, like a potter with clay. “If that were Miles in there, what would you do?”
“I’ve called for backup,” he informed her, dodging the question.
“How many?” she asked, panic seizing her.
Boldt told her. “Two pair. Unmarked. No ERT.”
That seemed to both relieve her and disgust her at the same time. He saw her in a different light. Was she too far invested in Ben to remain even partially objective? He feared she was, which left him alone in his decision making. As if to confirm this, she admitted, “I don’t know that I can make it over that fence.” She paused, studying it. “But I’m going to try.”
He grabbed her by the arm; she looked down at his handhold with disdain. “If it were Miles, I’d go in,” he answered honestly. “I wouldn’t let ERT within a mile of the place.”
A faint smile found her eyes.
“But I’d do it smart,” he continued. “And I’d have as much information available as possible.”
“Yes, you would,” she agreed, knowing him well.
“We don’t know for a fact that the boy is in there. We certainly cannot confirm that Garman is. What Ben reported seeing and what actually is the case are two different animals. He doesn’t know Garman.”
“He saw him at the airport,” Daphne corrected. “He does know him. Of all of us, he’s the only one who does.”
Boldt felt the wind knocked out of him. He had forgotten that connection, and the reminder of it blanked his mind momentarily. He tried to regain his thoughts. Either you stayed ahead of Daphne Matthews, or you played catch-up from then on.
“If you’re suggesting
reconnaissance,” she encouraged, “I’m in.”
“He’s under the name Babcock at a rooming house over on Washington,” he informed her, stunning her with the news. “If he used the same name here, it would be in the files in the office. We’d know which unit is his.”
“Forget him,” she repeated. “We get Ben out, then we worry about him.”
“No way,” he said.
“You know I’m sorry to do this,” she said, turning her head slowly to face him. Their eyes met. And then, all at once, she shoved him—struck him with open palms, sending him off-balance from where he crouched and skidding back through the loose stone and gravel.
She took several long strides with that athletic body of hers and leapt up onto the chain link like a cat, vaulting it as if it were a regular exercise. Both legs cleared the top and she was on the other side and down with a minimum of effort. She did not look back, did not give him a chance to wield power over her.
She stole into the dark and was gone.
70
“I never had me a little brother,” Garman said to Ben, as the boy came awake from unconsciousness. “I’m Jonny.”
Ben found himself on the storage unit’s cement floor, sitting in a corner away from the large garage door. His wrists were stuck together, as were his sneakers, sole to sole. He tried to speak, but his lips wouldn’t open.
“Super Glue,” Jonny explained. “I only had a little tape left, and I needed it. Now don’t go fighting it,” he said, as Ben struggled with his wrists. “At best you’ll only tear your skin open, and I’ll have to reglue you. You’ll make a mess and it’ll hurt. Just sit still.”
The sweatshirt hood was off his head and hanging down his back. The skin on his face looked strange, like smooth white clay, but his ear looked like a big scab, yellow and rust colored, like pus and dried blood. It took Ben a few minutes to adjust to not breathing out of his mouth. Every time he became too scared, he got dizzy. Things would go soft and fuzzy, but when he awakened everything was clear again. He realized it all had to with his breathing. If he kept himself from getting scared, he’d stay awake.
Jonny was soldering something, using what to Ben looked like an oversized butane lighter. There was a Coleman lantern going, making a loud hissing sound and throwing off a tremendous amount of bright light.
“I ain’t going to hurt you,” Jonny said, reading Ben’s thoughts accurately. “You shouldn’ta followed me here, you know that.”
Ben nodded, as terrified as he’d ever been. It looked like the guy was making some kind of bomb, all those wires coming out of a piece of plastic tubing.
“But what’s done is done.” He raised a finger to Ben. “You fucked with my head back there at the tree. I thought you was dead.”
He didn’t sound like other grown-ups to Ben. Besides having a voice that was like a cat’s hiss, he seemed more like a kid than an adult—someone who hadn’t aged, like a movie where the kid is trapped in an older guy’s body.
“Why the hell did you follow me?” he asked the boy who couldn’t answer. “My face?”
Ben shook his head violently no. He dared to look into those eyes and felt light-headed again. He was going to pass out. He heard the words “You can admit it” but only faintly. “And now, ’cause of you, I gotta pack up and leave. Leave you here. Never killed no kid.” Ben’s world went woozy—he hyperventilated—and he lost several minutes to the blue darkness.
When Ben came to again, Jonny was through soldering. Ben endeavored to keep his eyes off the man, because every time he looked at him he felt queasy. The area was occupied nearly entirely by a large pickup truck, with just enough room left over for a pair of oil drums marked USAF, lots of black plastic pipe, and a green metal trunk unlocked but not open. Jonny sat on the trunk, working off the truck’s tailgate. There was a car jack and a pair of beach chairs stacked along the wall and a couple of cardboard boxes that were taped shut. There were boxes from Radio Shack that had once contained radio-controlled four-wheel-drive cars.
There were only two pictures in the place, a postcard of Jesus and a slightly larger image of a woman being burned at the stake.
Ben thought about God. He believed in him. He prayed to him. He made all sorts of promises about how he would live his life, how he would obey Emily or whoever ended up taking care of him; he would even spend the night at the detention center, if that were asked of him. He promised not to run away. To listen. To learn respect. The prayers gushed out of him.
In his mind’s eye, he saw Daphne’s red car driving past. He wanted so badly to believe it had been her car. Although he didn’t know exactly how long he had been held captive, he guessed at least ten minutes, maybe more. His hope of being rescued waned, and he returned to his prayers.
The man who called himself Jonny spoke to the wall but intended it for Ben. “You and I aren’t so different.” A half minute later he added, “I ain’t never had no little brother.”
Ben hung his head to the floor. He didn’t want the man to see he was crying.
71
Boldt climbed the chain link fence quickly, tearing his coat sleeve and slicing his right forearm on the sharp spikes at the top, but he was up and over more easily than he had expected. He landed at a run, pursuing Daphne as if she were the suspect.
She had crossed over an extremely rare threshold for her: operating from her emotions rather than her intellect. It was one of the most dangerous transitions a cop can make, and Boldt had no choice but to stop her before she got herself, or the boy, or all three of them into what Boldt thought of as the “red zone”—that place from which there was no out other than confrontation or violence.
She hesitated at the pay phone, as if it might answer some questions for her, sensed Boldt’s approach, and took off around the side of the office building.
Boldt took his weapon in both hands, training it down to his side, an automatic response born of some sixth sense that had responded to an internal alarm. He didn’t believe in such responses, but he trusted them when they happened.
Daphne was athletic, a daily runner, and she was fast. If she had chosen to outrun Boldt it would have been no contest, but her focus was on locating Ben, and she moved slowly alongside the building, checking the shadows. Boldt bumped her from behind and whispered, “Move, move!” as he herded her to the end of the building, his attention spread in too many directions: behind him, along the storage units, along the wall of the building. He urged her on with his left shoulder, stopped her, peered around the corner of the building, and then indicated her on ahead. She glared at him but allowed him to guide her. He drove them into a recessed brick corner that felt protected and hissed, “Stupid move.”
“He’s here, goddammit. You may not believe that but—”
“We’ll find him,” he said, to reassure her. “If he’s here, we’ll find him. He’s a kid. A curious kid, at that. Precocious. Our job is to keep him—and us—out of trouble. Not make trouble.” He scanned the area as he spoke, rarely meeting her eyes. It didn’t escape him that he was suddenly playing the psychologist and she the renegade cop. “We’ll check the rows, but we’ll do it organized, not running around on our own. If we work together, side-to-side, we can net him. Listen, it’s like a giant supermarket, these rows. We’ll miss him if we don’t do it in an organized way.” She looked a little dazed. “You hearing me?”
She nodded faintly.
“We both want him to be okay,” he reminded her. He was hoping that by pinning her here he might buy time for the arrival of the backup, but to utilize them would either mean returning to the radio in his car or spending time on the cellular phone relaying messages—and Daphne’s patience was running low. He could sense her about to make another break. He felt rushed, hurried; he knew that was when he made mistakes. He had to get her involved, engaged in a plan, focused. If she went running through the facility she might get them all killed. He decided to hit her with the truth. “May I remind you,” he said, still scanning the immediat
e area, “that Garman has an undetermined amount of this rocket fuel? Just consider that for a moment.” He stared at her.
“Point taken.”
“An undetermined amount.”
“I get it, Sergeant. Let’s get on with it.”
“Okay,” Boldt said, forming a plan, wishing for the backup. “Right up against this first row. Weapons at the ready. We walk quietly—super quietly—slowly. Patiently. We hold position at the end of the first row. Round the corner, cover the side. Round the next corner and make eye contact. We hold to the wall and meet in the center. We cross to the next row and start it all over. If we need cover, we press ourselves into the recesses at the garage doors. We walk quietly because we’re listening—for voices, for movement, a radio. We’re interested in light and sound. Those are our signals.” He paused, hoping some of it might sink in. “If this is his lab, his storage area—and we have every reason to believe it is—it’s a second home to this creep. It’s familiar turf for him.” He released the gun with one hand and tapped his forehead. “Keep that right in here: his turf. Expect the unexpected. We watch for things like trip wires, sensors maybe, who knows? He has surprised us too many times to count. He prides himself on it. No surprises. Expect anything. Everything.”
He had talked long enough to calm her. Or perhaps his words had sunk in. Her eyes trained on his, she thanked him and followed it with an apology. Then she said desperately, “I just want to find him.”
He nodded. There were a dozen things he wanted to tell her—about Liz, about the change in his thoughts on field work, about feeling as if he were tempting fate. But the look on her face wouldn’t allow him to back out of his plans, and he realized that she loved little Ben Santori.
If that were Miles in there.... The words rang inside his head like bells.
Beyond Recognition Page 43
