by Harlan Coben
As she pulled them over her head, the flashlight beam appeared again. Rachel tried to follow it, see where it was coming from. It seemed to her that it was a different spot this time. Over on the right now. Closer.
And then, before she could pinpoint it, the beam was gone.
Her eyes locked on the spot where she thought the beam had come from. Dark. Very dark now. Still keeping her eyes looking there, she finished getting the night-vision goggles in place. Night-vision goggles are not magic. They don't really see in the dark. Night-vision optics work by intensifying existing light, even very small amounts. But here, ther e was pretty much nothing. That used to be a problem, but now most brands came with an infrared illuminator standard. The illuminator cast a beam of infrared light that was not visible to the human eye.
But it was visible to the night-vision goggles.
Rachel flipped on the illuminator. The night lit up in full green. She was looking not through a lens, but at a phosphor screen, not unlike the one on your TV set. The eyepiece magnified the picture--you were looking at a picture, not the actual site--and the picture was green because the human eye can differentiate more shades of green than any other phosphor color. Rachel stared.
Got something.
The view was hazy, but it looked to Rachel like a small woman. The woman seemed to be hiding behind a bush. She held something up to her mouth. A phone maybe. Peripheral vision is nearly nonexistent with these goggles, though these claimed to give you a thirty-seven-degree angle. She had to swivel her head to the right, and there, putting down the duffel bag with the two million dollars in it, was Marc.
Marc started walking toward the woman. His steps were short, probably because he was on cobblestones in the dark.
Rachel swiveled her head from the woman, to Marc, back to the woman. Marc was approaching, getting closer. The woman was still crouched in hiding. There was no way Marc could see her. Rachel frowned and wondered what the hell was going on.
Then the woman swung her arm up.
It was hard to see clearly--there were trees and branches in the way--but the woman seemed to be pointing her finger at Marc. They were not far apart anymore. Rachel squinted at the screen attached to her face. And it was then that she realized that the woman was not pointing a finger. The image was too big for a hand.
It was a gun. The woman was pointing a gun at Marc's head.
A shadow crossed over Rachel's vision. She started back, opening her mouth to call out a warning, when a hand like a baseball glove covered her mouth and smothered all sound away.
Tickner and Regan hooked up on the New Jersey Turnpike. Tickner drove. Regan sat next to him and stroked his face.
Tickner shook his head. "Can't believe you still have that soul patch."
"You don't like it?"
"You think you're Enrique Iglesias?"
"Who?"
"Exactly."
"What's wrong with the soul patch?"
"It's like wearing a T-shirt that says, "I Had a Middle-Age Crisis in 1998.' "
Regan thought about it. "Yeah, okay, fair point. By the way, those sunglasses you always wear. I was wondering if they were FBI issue."
Tickner grinned. "Helps me land the chicks."
"Yeah, those and your stun gun." Regan shifted in the chair. "Lloyd?"
"Uh-huh."
"I'm not sure I get it."
They weren't talking about eyewear or facial hair anymore.
"We don't have all the pieces," Tickner said.
"But we're getting close?"
"Oh yeah."
"Let's go through it then, cool?"
Tickner nodded. "First off, if the DNA lab Edgar Portman used is correct, the child is still alive."
"Which is weird."
"Very. But it explains a lot. Who would be most likely to keep a kidnapped child alive?"
"Her father," Regan said.
"And whose gun mysteriously vanished from the murder scene?"
"Her father's."
Tickner made a gun with his forefinger and thumb, aimed it at Regan, dropped the hammer. "Righto."
"So where has the kid been all this time?" Regan asked.
"Hidden."
"Well, gee, that helps."
"No, think about it. We've been looking at Seidman. We've looked closely. He knows that. So who would be the best person to hide his kid?"
Regan saw where he was going. "The girlfriend we didn't know about."
"More than that, a girlfriend who used to work for the feds. A girl friend who would know how we work. How to do a ransom drop. How to hide a child. Someone who would know Seidman's sister, Stacy, and be able to enlist her help."
Regan thought about it. "Okay, let's assume I believe all that. They commit this crime. They get two million dollars and the kid. But then what? They bide their time for eighteen months? They decide they need more cash? What?"
"They need to wait to avoid suspicion. Maybe they wanted the wife's estate to clear. Maybe they need another two million dollars to run away, I don't know."
Regan frowned. "We're still trying to finesse away the same point."
"What's that?"
"If Seidman was behind this, how come he was nearly killed? This was no wound-me-so-it-looks-good injury. He was flatlined. The paramedics were sure they had a goner when they first got there. Hell, we quietly called it a double homicide for almost ten days."
Tickner nodded. "It's a problem."
"And more than that, where the hell is he going right now? I mean, crossing the George Washington Bridge. Do you think he decided now was the time to flee with the two million dollars?"
"Could be."
"If you were fleeing, would you use your E-ZPass to pay the toll?"
"No, but he might not know how easy it is to trace."
"Hey, everyone knows how easy it is to trace. You get the bill in the mail. It tells you what time you hit what tollbooth. And even if he was dumb enough to forget that, your federal agent Rachel Whatshername isn't."
"Rachel Mills." Tickner nodded slowly. "Good point, though."
"Thank you."
"So what conclusions can we draw?"
"That we still don't have a clue what the hell is going on," Regan said.
Tickner smiled. "Nice to be in familiar territory."
The cell phone rang. Tickner picked it up. It was O'Malley. "Where are you?" O'Malley asked.
"A mile from the George Washington Bridge," Tickner said.
"Hit the accelerator."
"Why? What's up?"
"NYPD just spotted Seidman's car," O'Malley said, "it's parked at Fort Tryon Park--a mile, maybe mile and a half, from the bridge." "Know it," Tickner said. "We'll be there in less than five."
Heshy had thought that it was all going a little too smoothly.
He'd watched Dr. Seidman leave his car. He waited. No one else had come out. He'd started down from the old fort's tower.
That was when he spotted the woman.
He paused, watching her head down toward the subway elevators. Two guys were with her. Nothing suspicious in that. But then, when the woman sprinted back up alone, well, that was when things had changed.
He kept a close eye from then on. When she moved into the darkness, Heshy started creeping toward her.
Heshy knew that his appearance was intimidating. He also knew that much of the circuitry inside of his brain was not wired normally. He didn't much care, which, he assumed, was part of the wiring problem. There were those who would tell you that Heshy was pure evil. He had killed sixteen people in his life, fourteen of them slowly. He had left six men alive who still wished that he hadn't.
Supposedly, people like Heshy did not understand what they were doing. Other people's pain did not reach them.'That was not true. His victims' pain was not something distant to him. He knew what pain was like. And he understood love. He loved Lydia. He loved her in ways most people could never fathom. He would kill for her. He would die for her. Many people say that about their lo
ved ones, of course--but how many are willing to put it to the test?
The woman in the dark had binoculars strapped onto her head. Night vision goggles. Heshy had seen them on the news. Soldiers in battle wore them. Having them did not necessarily mean she was a cop. Most weaponry and military gizmos were available online to anyone with the proper dollars. Heshy watched her. Either way, cop or no cop, if the goggles worked, this woman would be a witness to Lydia committing murder.
So she had to be silenced.
He closed in slowly. He wanted to hear if she was talking to anyone, if she had some kind of radio control to other units. But the woman was silent. Good. Maybe she was indeed on her own.
He was about two yards away from her when her body stiffened.
I/The woman gave a little gasp. And Heshy knew that it was time to close her down.
He hurried over, moving with a grace that defied his bulk. He snaked one hand around her face and clasped it over her mouth. His hand was big enough to cover her nose too. Cut off the air supply. With his free hand, he cupped the back of her skull. He pushed his hands together.
And then, with both hands firmly placed on the woman's head, Heshy lifted her all the way off the ground.
Chapter 28
A sound made me stop. I turned to my right. I thought that maybe I heard something up there, near the street level. I tried to see, but my eyes were still suffering from the onslaught of the flashlight. The trees also helped cut off my view. I waited, seeing if I heard a followup. Nothing. The sound was gone now. It wasn't important anyway. Tara should be waiting for me at the end of this path. Whatever else might go on, that was all that counted.
Focus, I thought again. Tara, end of the path. All else was extraneous.
I started up again, not even glancing behind'me to check on the fate of the duffel bag with the two million dollars in it. It, too, was, like everything else but Tara, irrelevant. I tried to conjure up the shadowy image again, the silhouette made by the flashlight. I trudged on. My daughter. She could be right here, scant steps from where I now walked. I had been given a second chance to rescue her. Focus on that. Compartmentalize. Let nothing stop me.
I continued down the path.
While with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Rachel had been well trained in weapons and hand-to-hand combat. She had learned much during her four months at Quantico. She knew that true fighting was nothing like you saw on TV. You would never, for example, mess around with a high kick to the face. You would never try anything involving turning your back on an opponent, spinning, leaping--none of that.
Successful hand-to-hand combat could be broken down pretty simply.
You aimed for the vulnerable spots on the body. 1 he nose was good--it usually made your opponent's eyes well up with tears. The eyes, of course. The throat was good too--anyone who has ever been struck there knew how it could shut down your will to fight. The groin, well, obvious. You always hear that. The groin, however, is a difficult target, probably because a man is prone to defend it. It's usually better as a decoy move. Fake there and then go to one of the other more exposed, vulnerable spots.
There were other areas--the solar plexus, the instep, the knee. But there was also a problem with all these techniques. In the movies, a smaller opponent might beat a larger one. In reality, yes, that can happen, but when the woman is as small as Rachel and the man as large as her current attacker, the odds of her coming out on the winning end are very small. If the attacker knows what he is doing, very small becomes pretty close to nonexistent.
The other problem for a woman is that fights never go as they do in the movies. Think about any physical altercation you may have seen in a bar or at a sporting event or even on a playground. The battle almost always ends up in a grapple on the floor. On TV or in a boxing ring, sure, people stand and hit each other. In real life, one or the other ducks down and grabs the opponent and they go down to the ground and wrestle. It didn't matter how much training you had. If the fight reached that stage, Rachel would never defeat an opponent this large.
Lastly, while Rachel had practiced and trained and been in simulated dangerous situations--Quantico went so far as to have a "mock town" for these purposes--she had never been involved in a real physical altercation before. She was not ready for the pure panic, the tingly, unpleasant numbness in the legs, the way adrenaline mixed with fear saps your strength.
Rachel could not breathe. She felt the hand on her mouth and, out of her element, reacted wrong. Instead of immediately kicking behind her--trying to take out his knee or stomping down on the instep-- Rachel worked on instinct and used both her hands to pry her mouth free. It did not work.
Within seconds, the man had his other hand on the base of her head, holding her skull in a viselike grip. She could feel his fingers dig into her gums, push in her teeth. His hands seemed so powerful that Rachel was sure he could crush her skull like an eggshell. He didn't. Instead he wrenched up. Her neck took the brunt of it. It felt as if her head was being torn off. The hand against her mouth and nostrils effectively cut off her air supply. He lifted more. Her feet fully left the ground. She took hold of his wrists and tried to pull up, tried to lessen the strain on her neck.
But she still could not breathe.
There was a roaring in her ears. Her lungs burned. Her feet kicked out. They landed on him, blows so tiny and impotent he didn't bother to block them. His face was close to her now. She could feel the spit in his breath. Her night-vision goggles had been knocked askew but not all the way off. They blocked her sight.
The pressure in her head was pounding. Trying to remember her training, Rachel dug her nails into the pressure point on his hand beneath the thumb. No effect. She kicked harder. Nothing. She needed a breath. She felt like a fish on the line, flailing, dying. Panic took hold.
Her gun.
She could reach for it. If she could just control herself long enough, to have the courage to release her hand, she could go for her pocket, pull out the weapon, and fire it. It was her only chance. Her brain was going groggy. Consciousness was starting to ebb away.
With her skull seconds away from exploding, Rachel dropped her left hand away. Her neck stretched so taut, she was sure it would snap like a rubber band. Her hand found her holster. Her fingers touched the gun.
But the man saw what she was doing. With Rachel still dangling in the air like a rag doll, he kneed her hard in the kidney. Pain exploded in a flash of red. Her eyes rolled back. But Rachel did not give in. She kept going for the gun. The man had no choice. He put her down.
Air.
Her breathing passage was finally opened. She tried not to gulp it down, but her lungs had other ideas. She couldn't stop.
Her relief, however, was short lived. With one hand, the man stopped her from pulling out her gun. With the other, he delivered a dartlike blow to her throat. Rachel gagged and went down. The man took hold of her weapon and tossed it away. He dropped hard on top of her. The little wind she had managed to gather was gone now. He straddled her chest and moved his hands toward her throat.
That was when the police car sped past.
The man suddenly sat up. She tried to take advantage, but he was simply too big. He grabbed a cell phone from his pocket and put it to his mouth. In a harsh whisper, he said, "Abort! Cops!"
Rachel tried to move, tried to do something. But there was nothing left. She looked up in time to see the man cock his fist. It started toward her. She tried to turn away. But there was no place to go.
The blow jarred her head back against the cobblestone. And then darkness flooded in.
When Marc walked past her, Lydia stepped out of the bush from behind him with the gun up. She was aiming at the back of the head and had her finger on the trigger. The "Abort! Cops!" call in her earpiece startled her so, she almost pulled the trigger. But her mind worked fast. Seidman was still heading down the path. Lydia saw everything. Saw it clearly. She dumped the gun. No gun on her, no proof of any wrongdoing. The weapon could n
ever be tied to her as long as it was not in her possession. Like most weapons, it was untraceable. She wore gloves, of course, so there would be no fingerprints.
But--her mind was still working fast here--what was there to prevent her from taking the money?
She was just Miss Citizen taking a stroll through the park. She could spot the duffel bag, right? If she was caught with it, well, she was just being a good Samaritan. Given the chance, she would have brought the bag to the police. No crime there. No risk.
Not when you consider that two million dollars was inside it.
Her mind quickly ran through the pros and cons. Simple when you think about it. Take the money. If they caught her with it, so what? There was absolutely nothing to tie her to this crime. She had dumped the gun. She had dumped the cell phone. Sure, someone might find it. But it would not lead to either her or Heshy.
She heard a noise. Marc Seidman, who'd been about fifteen feet in front of her, broke into a sprint. Fine, no problem. Lydia started toward the money. Heshy appeared around the corner. She continued toward him. Without hesitation, Lydia scooped up the bag.
Then Lydia and Heshy headed down the path, fading into the night.
I continued to stumble forward. My eyes were beginning to adjust, but they were still several minutes from being particularly useful. The path slid downward. There were small cobblestones. 1 tried not to trip. The route grew steeper now, and I let the momentum carry me so that I could move faster without appearing to be running.
On my right, I could see the abrupt slope that overlooked the Bronx. Lights twinkled from way below.
I heard a child's yelp.
I stopped. It was not loud, but the sound was unmistakably that of a small child. I heard rustling. The child yelped again. It was farther away now. The rustling sound was gone, but I could hear the steady slap of footsteps on the pavement. Someone was running. Running with a child. Away from me.
No.
I broke into a sprint. The faraway lights provided enough illumination so that I could stay on the path. Up ahead, I saw the chain-link fence. It had always been locked. When I reached it, I saw that someone had used a bolt cutter on it. I pushed through and was back on the path now. I looked to my left, which led back up to the park.
