My Lord, how I drone on! At any rate, just thought I'd pop this off to you before I leave. By the way, this messenger service is a pretty fair cutout too. Remind me to give you their address. And any time I can help, I'm happy to. Be well.
Ramsay hid his face in his hands during the second playback, half in grief, half in concentration. The old man had loved double entendres and jargon. By 'elders' he meant the National Security Council itself. Evidently his informant had been someone attached to that august group, someone well-entrenched in the pipeline, perhaps CIA.
And the Henry Higgins reference had to be from Shaw's play, Pygmalion; the speech teacher who had groomed a student all too well with recording machines-which explained the phrase, 'sinister machinations.' How like Wintoon to discharge a responsibility to a friend, and by a devious route, before charging off to his cabin in western Maryland.
At least, thought Ramsay during his third playback, Broeck Wintoon hadn't sounded edgy or harried. Surely the fatal seizure was not connected with the favor he'd done. Ramsay slipped the microcorder into his pocket and hurried back to the organized bedlam of the studio, leaving one corner of his mind to chew on this message from Broeck Wintoon's grave.
Ramsay was walking off his lunch, watching a frail old woman perform an act of great courage in hurrying across a Washington boulevard, when that tiny mental corner spewed out what he should have realized on Sunday morning. Old Wintoon had set a hot pace up and down those library stairs when an elevator was handy. And canoeing, with a history of heart trouble? Not fucking likely! Wintoon had been a cautious man, and his physical pace would have been plain insanity for a man who knew he had a heart problem. Maybe his heart had stopped, but had the stoppage been natural?
No, by God, Ramsay said aloud, and hurried back to his office.
He made a spot decision and called the office of General Nels Magnuson from his office phone. Legal fictions aside, joint chiefs weren't all equal but the Army's Magnuson was the only chief Ramsay had ever got drunk with after NATO exercises. Magnuson was not in, but an aide who valued media was happy to help and made the usual promises. Ramsay rang off, pocketed spare microcassettes for his memocomp, and took another walk.
In the mall parking lot fifty yards from the NBN studios, an unmarked utility van resounded faintly with an internal knock. The van driver craned his head to peer back into the gloom. Got something?
He just called a general at the Pentagon, Bobby.
About what?
Wouldn't say, but my stress analyzer says he's climbing walls. The general was out. Do we wait 'til he's in?
Christ, no! But call it in, first, Harman. If we move without clearance it's your ass and mine both.
The van thrummed away half a block from where Alan Ramsay sat, the Genie's top sealed as he murmured into his memocomp.
SEVEN
Ramsay's revelation took up less than one complete cassette. He did not refer to Martin or Alden by name though poor Wintoon could no longer be harmed, and his name added credibility. Ramsay edited the tape until, step by step, he built a damning circumstantial case. Harrison Rand might be simon pure, and Walter Kalvin an angel of guidance, but some nameless force was ruthlessly seeking the carriers of that rumor. If Alan Ramsay was not already on an erasure list, he expected to get there soon.
He made a copy of the tape before leaving his car and hurried back to the studios seeking postage. In each of the two padded envelopes he placed a tiny cassette with a note: TO BE MADE PUBLIC IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH, DISAPPEARANCE OR DISABILITY, signed with his legal signature. Luckily he'd entered Alden's address into the memory of his pocket memocomp. It was not luck but premonition that made him leave his name off the studio's return address.
He entrusted the second envelope to the nightly news producer, cautioning Irv to squirrel it away at home and forget it until the day he, Ramsay, became conspicuously unable to do NBN's work. Irv merely nodded, folded the envelope into an inside coat pocket, and made a wry comment about threats from jealous husbands. Ramsay did not enlighten him; the people Broeck Wintoon had contacted did not seem to deal much in threats.
Ramsay had thought himself calm and controlled for his segment of the evening news, describing the plight of Costa Rican families whose sons fought on the Nicaraguan border while death squads stalked those families. Then, unbidden, his mind flashed: Holy God, there are death squads nearer than Costa Rica; they could gun down my daughter, and viewers saw Alan Ramsay struggle through an instant of what seemed to be sudden stage-fright. He overcame it with rigid self-control, completed his piece, then ran for the nearest telephone.
He reached Kathleen's recorder and blurted, Kathleen, you and Laurie could be in terrible danger! For all I know your line is bugged. Grab the kid now, right this minute, and, and oh hell, uh, you know where I proposed? Go there and wait for me to page you or meet you! No police; I'll explain later. Listen, Kathleen: if you still have that little snub-nose equalizer, take it with you-and don't trust any strangers! I apologize to you both, and I'm sorry for this and, and I'll make it up to you. But do it right now, this instant! 'Bye.
He rejected several plans while flogging the Genie toward Kathleen's place. He knew where Laurie's key was hidden. Once inside the condo he could reach Kathleen by phone if she was at work. And he would ransack every drawer until he found the little Smith Wesson she claimed to hate so much. But Ramsay double-parked behind a Metro Police cruiser and, sprinting to the condo, knew he was too late.
Even as he showed his ID to the uniformed cop at the door, he saw past the man's shoulder. Kathleen Ramsay lay sprawled within a neatly taped outline on her living room carpet while a plainclothesman circled her with a video unit. My daughter, he croaked, ignoring the man's question, then shouting: Laurie! Laurie, pudd'n! Where's my kid?
Lieutenant Wayne Corwin, Third District, was a rectangular balding man who dealt well, if brusquely, with stunned citizens. He introduced himself and warned Ramsay against touching the pathetic slender shape that lay face down on the carpet. The only way you can help her now is to let us do our jobs, he said.
Then he ushered Ramsay away from the protocols of Homicide forensics and into Kathleen's kitchen. Even though Kathleen had fought, there was very little blood. Both of her head wounds, said Corwin, were probably from a silenced twenty-two caliber handgun at point-blank range because no one had heard shots. Did the victim own such a piece, Mr. Ramsay?
I don't think so. A thirty-two revolver, if she still has it. My daughter Laurie: where is she?
A long studied silence before Corwin said, We hoped you might tell us. There's no ransom note.
Ramsay slumped against the wall, flooded with weakness and nausea. Oh God, oh Laurie- And then he decided that he must be very careful talking to Corwin. He rubbed his hands, which had become icy, and stammered out a hope that Laurie could be somewhere safe.
I'd like to think so, Corwin sighed, and told Ramsay the worst. Moments after a neighbor heard a woman's screams from the condo, two men had been seen lugging a big plastic garbage can from the condo to a double-parked van. Unless Mrs. Ramsay owned any heavy art objects? That's a possibility.
Ramsay shook his head. Can you trace the van?
There was always hope, said Corwin. You could help if you have any idea why the girl might be taken. Beside the obvious ransom motive, of course.
For all I know, this guy is a direct pipeline to Laurie's captors, Ramsay thought. Invigorated by anger at the idea, he looked into Corwin's eyes. In my business you make enemies, he conceded.
Including ex-wives who have custody?
Ramsay: You can go-sorry. Kathleen and I get along. Got along, he amended, and squeezed his eyes shut from the pain of it. I see Laurie often. Why the hell would I kidnap my own kid?
It happens, Corwin said gently. Then you deny that you and the deceased had recently quarreled over custody?
Damn' right I deny it! Oh, sometimes we argued about this weekend or that, or where I took Laurie. My G
od, be reasonable, I'm not-
Homicide and kidnapping in broad daylight aren't reasonable crimes, usually, Corwin interrupted. I gave you a chance to tell me what happened here. You know, but you're not helping. What am I supposed to think, Mr. Ramsay?
Whispered: I don't know. Then more strongly: I just want my kid back. I'll say anything, or not say anything; whatever it takes to have my daughter safe, Ramsay pleaded.
Corwin rubbed his nose as he studied the distraught father standing before him. I don't think you set this up deliberately, but you knew you had big trouble before you got here. What kind of trouble?
Of course, Ramsay thought: the phone recorder! I'm, not sure. I've had some-threats, indirect threats, really, and during a telecast today I realized that someone could go after my family instead of coming directly to me.
But you didn't call nine-one-one and tell us, Corwin persisted.
I couldn't. I still can't. I left a message for Kathleen so I could-hell, I don't know. Protect them myself, I guess.
Corwin lifted one corner of his mouth without really smiling. A man wouldn't do brain surgery on his family, but he'll try to do a cop's job. Pause. Where did you expect to meet them?
A scrubby little McDonald's, a couple of miles from here. I figured they could hide in plain sight.
Corwin: You proposed to your wife at a greasetrap?
It was her best proof of my proletarian tastes, Ramsay said, and the two exchanged the wan smiles of men whose wives had never quite house-broken them to elegance.
From that point on, their interchanges became warmer. Corwin agreed that, at this point, publicity could not help Laurie. For that matter, the Metro Police could truthfully say they had no real proof the girl had been abducted. But Ramsay, said Corwin, was no pro at dealing with kidnappers. It was impossible to overstress the importance of getting in touch, and keeping records. The police would be contacting Ramsay again, sorry but police work had its rituals, one being that victims were encouraged to cooperate with the police; was that clear?
When Ramsay moved from the kitchen he saw that Kathleen's body had been removed so quietly, so professionally, he hadn't known when they did it. She belonged to them, now. So did he, if they chose. And Laurie: whose chattel had she become? He seemed to be moving in a very exclusive circle now, in which he alone was an amateur in matters of sudden death.
En route to his apartment, Ramsay began to think clearly again. Committing a murder, then taking Laurie from a Georgetown condominium during rush hour, was itself a message of power-and of restraint. It would've been simpler just to kill her. And they would kill without hesitation, had perhaps fired two bullets into Kathleen's head for no better reason than to prove it. They'd get in touch with Ramsay to make their demands, no doubt about that. And by this time, they might have taps on his phones at home as well as at the studios. So might the Metropolitan Police-and they might be working together. I'm bucking the White House, he thought. Christ, there was almost no limit how wide a net could be cast from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue!
But the operative word was 'almost.' Ramsay knew a little about electronic bugging, had researched it for telecasts, but thought it unlikely that the National Security Agency's automated monitors would identify him from random phone booths. It might depend on what he said.
He swung the Genie around Logan Circle, shot away and drove to Glenwood Cemetery where he watched for surveillance before doubling back. It seemed that he was not being followed, but perhaps they no longer considered it necessary. With Laurie as bait, they could reel Alan Ramsay in anytime they liked.
He parked at Gallaudet College and got a fistful of change from Student Services, but had to place the call from off-campus. He reached Matthew Alden's home recorder but this time, no friendly voice broke into Ramsay's spiel. Matt, I'm calling from a public booth. You recognized my voice before but I've got my thumb pressed against my larynx just in case voiceprinted are as good as I hear they are.
You also said to warn you, just in case. I'm afraid your old friend was onto something incredibly big, and powerful, and it has cost the lives of two people close to me. Maybe three. Maybe me, if they want to. I may be under a magnifying, glass, phone taps at home, the best that high-tech can offer. I don't know for sure and I don't want to risk leading anyone to you.
And my daughter is missing; probably kidnapped. If there is any way on God's earth you can contact your friend for me, do. Momentarily, he was near weeping. My eleven-year-old girl, Alden; they've killed her mother and I don't dare open up to the police, that's how big this is!
He took a shaky breath, then several quick ones, and added, Don't trust anyone on any government payroll, and don't take my word that you're safe. I could've slipped up, somehow. And please, please, if you can, tell your friend. I'll give you good odds he's under someone's death sentence, so maybe I could trust him. That's all. Watch your step and your family's. Ramsay was leaving the booth when he remembered he could call from any booth and query his own apartment's message recorder.
He found another booth, called his apartment, punched in the playback signal. Pam Garza had called, suggesting that she cook antojitos in his apartment to avoid restaurant food. Some Pentagon staffer of Magnuson's had called to say the general would be out of the area until Monday but would be available at two-thirty that day, if Mr. Ramsay cared to confirm.
And then another call; a harsh unisex voice that had said only, This is once, Ramsay. Go home.
Finally the same voice calling again, and this time he- more likely, she-was more instructive: That's twice, mister. We know you can get these calls if you want to. We won't run all over hell calling you from here and there. We'll just start sending you bits and pieces. Go home, Ramsay.
Ramsay made it outside the booth before he vomited, broke a dozen laws getting home, parked in front of his garage to save time, and stormed into his apartment as the telephone began to ring.
It was Pam. You know what antojitos are, mister? She was utterly unaware of his panic. Little delicate morsels you nibble with your teeth. As it happens, I have some, she said, sensuously teasing.
Come on over, he said. I have to keep this line clear for an important call.
Pam was only half amused. Important? What am I, chopped liver?
All but shouting: Great, bring chopped liver!
You're a very weird man, she said, vexed, and rang off.
The injection had taken effect fast, but Laurie awoke very slowly. Her joints hurt, and it was dark. Mom? A flat echo mocked her. She rolled off the bed-no, only a bedroll on a wooden floor-and padded barefoot toward the slits of light outlining a door. It opened with a suddenness that made her squint.
Hello, Laurel, said the woman, in a voice that was barely a woman's. She was not tall but thickset, with short bangs and a square, wide jaw, and the hands that steered Laurie into the fluorescent-lit room were terribly strong. I'm Johnnie, the woman said, smiling, touching her breast as if sign language were required.
I hurt a lot. Where's my mom? Then, as recent memories pushed through the fuzziness: Those men were hurting my mother!
Your mother's all right, Laurel, said Johnnie. She said you must hide here with me for awhile. I'm a friend of hers, you see.
Laurie did not see much that encouraged her. The larger room sported only collapsible furniture and portable amenities: card table, two chairs, a large cot. A small portable TV and other equipment lay on the table; magazines mounded under the cot. Three small fruitwood logs burned in a glass-fronted fireplace for heat, most of the light coming from a battery-powered fluorescent lamp on the table. No light would get past the heavy drapes, which had been sealed against the walls with broad-headed roofing nails. Opposite the small room where she had slept, Laurie could see through a doorway where a camp stove and canned goods lay strewn across a kitchen countertop.
Laurie studied the woman with the mannish clothes and the stout arms of a bus driver. She wanted to use the telephone. She didn't understand why she
was here, and she said so.
Johnnie explained in simple words, the words one might use to a simpleton or a six-year-old. Laurie thought Johnnie's smile might have been baked on until Johnnie claimed that Kathleen Ramsay was in trouble with the police, and Laurie hotly disputed that. Suddenly, in place of the smile, there was only the glittering flat gaze of a pit viper. Don't call me a liar, Laurel, she said in that voice like something from a cartoon, yet not in the least laughable.
Fists on her hips, Laurie proved she was an only child: It's Laurie, not Laurel, and I don't know you. If Mom's in trouble, I wanta call my dad. You better get me a telephone or-
If the red flag was 'you better,' Johnnie was the bull. Wrenched off balance by the woman's thick fingers in her hair, Laurie found herself dragged to a chair. Johnnie pinioned her arms with ease and thrashed her ample bottom. You-will-behave, Johnnie punctuated some of those heavy slaps. The louder Laurie screamed, the heavier the slaps became until Laurie collapsed, sobbing, bent over Johnnie's lap.
Dean Ing - Silent Thunder Page 7
