Taken

by Chris Jordan

  Finally I drop the towel and emerge fully dressed, more or less. No shoes yet. He hasn’t picked out shoes.

  “Your hair,” he says. “Fix it.”

  A glance in the mirror reveals that my hair needs attention. I keep it short so I can always blow-and-go, but a night on the bathroom floor has left me looking damaged. I bang out the dents with a brush, use the blow-dryer and my fingers, and in ten minutes I actually look presentable.

  “Kitchen,” he says, gesturing with the pistol.

  I walk ahead of him into the kitchen, thinking about knives. I have quite a collection. Boning knives so sharp you’re bleeding before you realize you’ve been cut. I can’t imagine plunging a knife into a fellow human being, but the man in the mask isn’t human. On the other hand, if I kill the bastard I may never see my son again. A thought that never leaves my mind, even for an instant.

  The air is redolent of freshly brewed coffee.

  “It’s going to be a big, busy day, so I made a pot,” he explains. “Take a seat.”

  I sit on a stool at my own counter. Miss Obedience. Having noticed that my knives seem to have vanished from the counter. Did he check all the drawers, too? Of course he did. He had hours and hours to get things right while I was unconscious. He’s been over the whole house, checked everywhere. If I had a gun, which I don’t, he’d already know about it. The man may be a monster, but he’s an intelligent monster, and therefore even more dangerous.

  Careful, girl. Don’t lose your focus. Tommy is the focus. Do only that which will bring you closer to your son.

  “You’ve had seven calls,” he says. “Six left messages. Five are work related—you’re a very busy girl, Kate, congratulations—and one was for your kid. Some girl. He’s a good-looking kid, the girls must be all over him, huh? Anyhow, you can respond to the calls when we finish up our business at the bank. Go on, have your breakfast.”

  He slides a bowl of cereal across the counter. Milk has been added. Tommy’s Rice Krispies are talking to me, reminding me of all our breakfasts in this room. Did this vile bastard know what this would do to me, hearing my son’s cereal?

  It takes all my will not to fly across the counter and slap that sneering smile off his ski-masked face.

  “This is the schedule of events,” he’s saying. “First we have a light breakfast, then we call your kid, then we go to the bank. We’ll return here to await confirmation of the wire transfer, and then I will leave. If all goes according to plan—if we follow the method and do not deviate—your son should be back in this house by, say, three in the afternoon, at the latest.”

  The rational part of me knows he could be lying—all he wants is money—but I can’t prevent a flood of hope so strong, so deeply felt it almost makes me giddy.

  “You’re not eating,” he points out.

  I push the cereal bowl away. Check the mug of coffee he set out. Could I scald him? No, the coffee is lukewarm. He’s anticipated the scalding thing. Or maybe some other victim threw a cup in his face and he’s learned from experience.

  “The method. That’s what gets your kid home,” he says. “See, I’ve made a study. Stupid kidnappers take the child, then call the parent. Ask ’em to get the money, meet them somewhere. What’s the first thing the parent does? Calls the feds. Under the mistaken impression that’s the smart thing to do. FBI, they screw it up nine times out of ten. Nobody gets paid off, the kid gets wasted. With this method, we take control of the parent as well as the child. Stick with the parent until the money is safely transferred. It’s just common sense, that’s all. Strategic positioning.”

  All the time he’s speaking, bragging about his so-called method, he’s aiming the gun at my heart. Five feet away, can’t miss. He likes that pistol almost as much as he likes talking. Gives the impression he’d like to use it, given an excuse.

  “You’ve got just under five hundred grand in a money market account. Four hundred and ninety-six thousand and change. That’s what attracted our attention in the first place. Guess you must be leery of the stock market, huh? Can’t say I blame you. And bonds don’t pay enough to make a difference, do they? Thing is, you having all that cash just sitting there, it makes things easier for me.”

  It strikes me like a blow to the stomach that’s it’s my fault Tommy got taken. If I hadn’t kept the money from Ted’s life insurance in that account, if I’d put it in mutual funds like the financial managers had advised me, then I wouldn’t have been such an easy mark. But I hadn’t wanted to spend that money—Ted’s last gift to us—so for a time I borrowed against it, letting simple interest accrue over the years. Figuring one day, in the far distant future, Tommy will inherit a very nice sum, or maybe we’d use some of it for college, but whatever the case, it would be coming from his late father, not from me. For sentimental reasons. Reasons that now seem ridiculous, if not downright stupid. Talk about making myself a target! I’m getting the impression that the man in the mask browses through bank accounts like some people browse for books. And he must have picked me because I fit the abduction-for-profit profile: single parent with a large sum of readily accessible cash.

  “If you’re finished with your breakfast—what’s the matter, no appetite?—we’ll proceed to step two. The kid call.”

  He produces a cell phone from a vest pocket, hits one key, is connected almost instantly.

  “Put him on,” he says, then nods to himself.

  He slides the cell phone over the counter and indicates that I pick it up.

  “Tommy!”

  “Mom? Is that you?”

  Tommy’s voice. He’s alive. Suddenly I’m weeping, blubbering, and my son is telling me not to cry. “I’m okay, Mom. I was at the game and then I don’t remember. They said they gave me stuff to make me sleep. It made me forget. Then they—”

  Before my son can finish telling me what else they did, the phone goes dead. Not even a dial tone, just silence, horrible silence. I want to scream. The man in the black ski mask is studying me, and he seems very pleased with himself. I throw the cell phone at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands on the floor, skittering.

  “That was interesting,” he says after a moment. “I almost pulled the trigger.”

  “Fuck you! I want my baby back!”

  His teeth click together, chop chop. “End of the day, Kate. Provided you follow the method. Now put on some makeup. You want to look good for the bankers, don’t you? It isn’t every day you buy a new house.”

  “What?”

  The man in the mask sighs. “I told you yesterday. Why is it women never listen? You’re buying a house, Kate. A small villa in the Caymans. Isn’t that nice?”

  9

  fasten your seat belt

  The marble floors of the Fairfax National Bank feel spongy somehow. I’m wearing my sensible flats, not the heels the man in the ski mask picked out. My knees are watery and light—I’d be wobbling on those heels. Not a good sign when you’re about to make a major transaction.

  I catch sight of my image in the plate-glass mirrors near the vestibule, and am amazed at how normal I look. A not-quite-young career woman in her elegant, perfectly understated DKNY outfit. Still slim, almost willowy. Small breasts, nice trim butt molded by the line of the perfectly draped trousers. Frankly, I look like a million bucks. Or a half million anyhow. Never know from looking at me that my heart is racing and my bones are infused with equal parts dread and wild anticipation.

  Hoping this will all be over soon. It must, one way or another. Couldn’t stand another day of this. Follow the method and you’ll have your kid back by three, the latest. That’s the deal, supposedly. So I’m being my best obedient self. What other choice to I have?

  None.

  Around my left ankle, concealed by the slightly belled trousers, is a plastic bracelet with a small electronic tracking device. Snapped on just before I left the house. Out of his immediate control, but not, apparently, out of view. I’ll know exactly where you are at all times. Take the wrong street,
I’ll know. Try to leave the bank by a back door, I’ll know—and your kid will pay the price. I tell him the ankle bracelet is unnecessary, that I’ll do exactly what he has requested, but he smirks and tells me to shut up like a good girl.

  The GPS tracker is backup. My team will have you in visual contact at all times. You won’t see them, but they’ll be there. Count on it.

  In my sweaty hands is the manila folder he handed me in the garage, just before I slipped behind the wheel of my minivan. The folder contains the necessary financial information, as well as a brochure for Island Dream Villas.

  “If you’re thinking about making a run for it, now’s your chance,” he tells me as I hit the ignition key. “Just remember, there are consequences. We will not hesitate. Your son will die. Follow the method, do not deviate from the plan, and he will live. It’s that simple.”

  “What if I have an accident?” I ask him.

  “Make sure you don’t.”

  A moment later I’m backing out of the garage. At first it feels like I’m driving drunk—I’m dizzy with anxiety—but by the time I make the first turn I’m more or less in control, and follow the agreed-upon route without incident.

  Made it. Ready for the next step. To my left is the teller area, three windows open. One of the people waiting to conduct business is the beautifully coiffed owner of a downtown jewelry store, clutching his blue, zippered bag with yesterday’s receipts. Can’t think of his name, but we know each other by sight. What would he do if he knew? Nothing to stop me from telling him, nothing to stop me from announcing that my son has been abducted and the man behind it waits inside my house. Nothing but the fear that I’ll never see Tommy again.

  I march into the back area, where the loan officers work in small carrels. Find the desk marked Assistant Vice Treasurer. The woman at the desk, another familiar face, looks up and smiles. “Good morning, Mrs. Bickford.”

  “Morning, um, Diane,” I say, reading the nameplate.

  “Have a seat, please. Now, what can I do for you?”

  I lay the folder in my lap. “I was told you handle wire transfers.”

  “One of my many jobs. You need to wire funds?”

  I nod. Mouth so dry I’m having trouble forming words. “I’m, ah, buying a vacation home.”

  Diane brightens. She’s about my age and similarly dressed. There doesn’t seem to be a hint of suspicion in her open, pleasant face. But then she knows me, apparently.

  “You catered my niece’s wedding. Alana Pillsbury?”

  “Of course,” I said. “You’re Margaret’s sister?”

  “Sister-in-law. It was lovely really. Those people you have, they’re so nice. And the food—to die for! Bill and I were expecting rubber chicken, you know? Because I happened to know what the per-plate price was—Margaret can’t keep a secret, not about money! So we were simply amazed when we saw the spread.”

  “We try,” I say.

  “This must be your busy season.”

  “Yes, we’re pretty well booked until October.”

  “Fabulous. Now, what’s this about a vacation home?”

  With slightly trembling hands, I push the brochure across her desk. “They call them villas. But it’s really like a condo sort of thing. Separate buildings, but the association takes care of everything,” I say, repeating the lines supplied by the man in the mask. Who has assured me there will be no problems. All this about villas is just window dressing, a diversion. People in my “bracket” transfer funds all over the world, supposedly. Never thought of myself as being in a particularly elevated “bracket,” but obviously he thinks so.

  There is no indication that Diane disagrees, or doubts my intentions.

  “Oh, my God, I’m so jealous. A villa in the Caribbean!”

  “It’s an investment, really. We won’t be able to use it for more than a few weeks a year.”

  “It’s fabulous, Mrs. Bickford.”

  “Kate, please. Here’s the information.” I hand her the instructions. Copied in my own hand.

  Diane studies the page, looking quite serious. Now it will all blow up in my face. Surely she’ll figure it out, press a button under her desk, and in a moment the bank will be flooded with uniformed police officers. Instead, she smiles and nods and says, “Sea Breeze Limited is handling the sale on that end? And this is the number for their bank?”

  I nod. “They’re, um, my appointed agents. That’s the number they faxed me.”

  “And this is the account you wish to transfer from?”

  I nod again, fearful that my voice will give me away.

  Diane goes to her computer screen and checks the balance. “Excellent,” she says. “Funds are sufficient. Almost to the penny. Do you want the wire fee to come out of your regular checking account?”

  I nod again.

  “Okay, now we have to be formal. I know who you are, Kate. Of course I do. But it’s a requirement that we see two forms of ID.”

  I’m prepared for this, and produce my driver’s license and a copy of my birth certificate.

  “A credit card would have been fine,” she says, handing them back. “But the birth certificate works, too. Okay. We’re almost there. I need to print out a form, then you sign it and we’ll be done.”

  Three minutes later I sign my name. Concentrating so that my hand doesn’t tremble.

  “All there is to it,” Diane announces. “You understand that the IRS will be notified of the transfer? The new security regulations require they be notified for any sum transfer in excess of ten thousand dollars, or any overseas transfer, regardless of size. This qualifies on both counts.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Excellent.”

  “How does this work, exactly?” I’m departing from the script, but it seems like something that should be asked.

  “We use Chase Manhattan. It’s all electronic, of course. They notify the recipient bank that funds are due, and that bank distributes the funds. Assuming the number you gave me is correct, the transaction should be completed before the end of business. Probably a lot sooner.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it,” she says brightly. “We’re done here.”

  As I stand to leave, she shakes my hand. “Congratulations, Kate! If you ever need a house sitter, let me know.”

  A minute or so later I’m back in the minivan. Barely have time to put the keys in the ignition when the cell phone in my purse starts ringing. It’s his cell, not mine, and it takes a moment for me to get it opened.

  “Any problems?”

  “No. They said by the end of business.”

  “You did good, Kate. And now I want you to fasten your seat belt. It’s not like you to be so careless.”

  I look wildly around. There are other vehicles in the parking lot, but I can’t see anyone watching me.

  “Oh, they can see you,” he says in my ear, as intimate as a lover. “You just can’t see them. Come on home, Kate. Follow exactly the same route that got you there. I’ll be waiting.”

  “My son!” But the cell phone is dead.

  Driving home is like a dream. Some other version of me drives while I observe, wondering how she manages to do it. Steer the wheel, tap the brakes, come to a complete stop at the intersections? It all seems so complicated. And yet I’m functioning as if everything is normal. Just another day in the life of Katherine Ann Bickford.

  Am I being followed? Again, there are other vehicles behind me, but nothing sticks out, nothing announces malevolent intent. And yet clearly he knows where I am and what I’m doing. Knows whether I’ve fastened my seat belt or not. Knows whether I’ve been naughty or nice.

  Turning onto Linden Terrace, I hesitate. Dreading what happens next. I’ve been out of his direct control for almost forty minutes and the prospect of returning to him, submitting myself to that loathsome creature, is almost more than I can bear. Never hyperventilated before, but there’s always a first time, apparently, because I’m panting like I’ve just run a
marathon. Points of light dance in my eyes. Dizzy.

  I slowly brake to a stop, trying to get control over my breathing.

  The cell phone chirps like an angry bird. I open it, drop the damn thing, finally fish it out from under the console.

  “What are you doing!” he demands.

  “Panic,” I manage to say. Telling him the absolute truth.

  “Get your ass back home, lady. Now! Pull into the garage and put down the door.”

  The other me takes over, the one who knows how to drive, the one with nerves of steel. And as the garage door clunks down behind me, the man in the ski mask yanks open my door. Reaches across my waist to unfasten the seat belt, the gun cold and hard, pressing into the soft part of my neck.

  This is it, I’m thinking. Now he kills me.

  Instead, I’m pulled out of the driver’s seat—he lifts me with one arm, that’s how strong he is—and placed on the concrete floor of the garage. He’s over me, a booted foot on each side, pinning me in place. Then he slowly crouches, knees pressing against my chest with his full weight. Making it impossible to draw a breath. My legs begin to kick, futilely. Much too feeble. He barely notices. The pressure does not relent. Can’t breathe.

  “Here’s the thing, Kate. It will take four or five hours for the wire to go through. That’s on average. Might be sooner, might be later. Nothing we can do to hurry it up. And I have other things to do. Promises to keep. So you’re going back to sleep.”

  He plunges a needle into my neck. Everything gets warm and dark. I have one last thought before fading away.

  Tommy.

  10

  dead to the world

  “So,” Cutter wants to know, “is the package ready?”

  Hinks and Wald look up from the video game. Both appear to be perplexed, which Cutter has learned are their default expressions, regardless of circumstance. Both men are competent, in a limited, military-trained sort of way, but neither seems capable of thinking outside the box. That’s just fine with Cutter, who prefers to do all the heavy lifting, brainwise. Left to their own devices, the two men would be working mope jobs, maybe attempting small-time robberies, or deviant sexual diversions, on their days off.