by Ty Patterson
Meghan wore her sunglasses and in the same motion, flicked a switch in a stem. The shades turned into a counter-surveillance device.
The stems of the shades were fitted with nano-cameras that projected the rear view onto the lenses, in high definition.
There he is. The same guy who attacked me.
What does he want?
Her question was answered when Baldy threw his burger in a trash can, wiped his hands against his coveralls, and followed her.
Surely he isn’t stupid enough to attack again?
To the left of her was an almost unbroken line of vehicles. To her right were the fronts of buildings.
He’s going to assault me in broad daylight?
She lengthened her stride by a fraction and got her answer.
Baldy ran at her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
She let him approach, without giving any indication that she had spotted him.
He came fast, his face intent, his lips pulled back.
She pulled out her cell again and pretended to talk. That would fill him with confidence; that she was distracted.
Ten feet.
Seven feet.
Three feet.
His hands reached out for her.
She took a side-step, the cell flying and smashing on concrete.
Her left hand grabbed his right. Her left leg kicked out his right.
She pivoted on her right heel, used his momentum against him, and sent him flying towards a gray wall.
Baldy crashed into it heavily. He groaned once. However, he recovered swiftly.
He turned, his lips bleeding, his eyes small and mean.
He bent into a crouch, his hands going up in a boxer’s stance, and he shuffled forward.
He threw a punch in the air. It didn’t reach her.
Dummy.
He followed with a fast left. Very fast.
She swayed back.
Float. Don’t rush.
Zeb had drilled it in them till it became habit.
Floating, that smooth, languid move he had, gave one control. Allowed one to think.
He had taught them to slow time down, to feel the attack coming, to read it in the opponent’s eyes and body, long before the attacker’s thought turned to action.
Baldy took one more step forward and his fists shot out in a blur.
Left. Right. A hook.
She evaded all with ease.
A shout came from far behind them.
It triggered another flurry of jabs from Baldy.
He can’t afford to be caught. He has to finish it fast.
More yells came, footsteps pounded.
Finish it.
Baldy crowded her against a vehicle, his eyes wide in triumph, a right hook sailing her away, a left jab preventing any escape.
She slid down.
She folded her legs and vanished beneath the hook.
Ducked her head to let the jab whistle past.
Her right hand blurred; her spear finger strike buried deep in Baldy’s gut.
His breath left him in a whoosh.
Her right hand continued moving.
It bent. Her elbow gouged Baldy’s meaty thigh.
She slid out smoothly from underneath him.
She rose and before he could turn, grabbed his head, and slammed it against the vehicle’s window.
The vehicle’s alarm blared. Footsteps came closer and suddenly there was a bunch of people surrounding them.
Meghan stepped back, let another man approach Baldy and turn him.
Blood ran down his face. His forehead was cut. His nose seemed to be broken. His eyes were half closed.
‘I saw what happened,’ a short woman stepped forward, her eyes wide in excitement, her shopping bags swinging in one hand.
‘I shouted at her, to warn her, but I was too far away.’
‘You alright, honey?’ She reached into a bag and pulled out a bottle of water. ‘Here, drink it. I never saw anything like it. The way you took him down.’
She held her phone up. ‘I got it all here, honey. He attacked you, with no warning. That’ll shut him up. And the cops, if they hassle you.’
The cops came, two cruisers rolled up and from one Beth emerged, followed by a tall, lean, young man. Mark Feinberg.
Beth looked anxiously at Meghan.
Meghan winked back. ‘I’m fine,’ she mouthed.
She took another step back, letting the cops do whatever they had to. Onlookers crowded the police, eager to give their statements.
The short woman grabbed Mark’s arm, spoke at length, her hands gesticulating. He took her phone and gave it to another cop.
Another cruiser arrived, more police joined the scene. Witnesses were interviewed. Meghan’s statement was taken.
She told the police about the previous attack. The shopper’s phone recording told its own story.
Baldy was led away, and the crowd started dispersing.
A few cameras clicked. Tourists. They would have stories to tell. It happened in New York. They had ringside seats.
All but one cruiser departed.
Mark came to Meghan and hugged her.
‘When we heard about it, Beth asked me to call an ambulance. For him.’
He grinned when Meghan punched him in the arm.
‘Lose something?’ Beth asked when Meghan looked behind her, at the pavement.
‘My phone. I tossed it away when I saw him coming.’
The phone was beyond repair. They collected the pieces, crushed the sim card, and trashed it.
‘You didn’t miss much,’ Beth pulled her cell out. ‘Pizaka and Chang haven’t –’
Her voice stilled. Her face whitened.
She turned the screen for Meghan and Mark to see better.
On it was a video.
She played it.
A girl, Maddie, was doing math problems in a book, speaking aloud.
Subtracting and dividing numbers.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘What does it mean?’
Beth had asked the question several times before. That didn’t stop her from asking it again. She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration as she paced their office.
Pizaka was staring out of a window, Chang was looking moodily at the video on a screen, Meghan sat at Werner’s keyboard, while Zeb was sprawled on a couch.
None of them had any answers for her.
She had forwarded the video to the two cops, who had arrived at the twins’ offices later in the day.
They came bearing news that Pike Deyoung had acted on his own. Meghan barely acknowledged it; she had suspected as much.
The twins had set Werner on the video before the cops arrived. Werner didn’t come back with much.
The message had been sent from Greenport from another burner phone that was now inactive.
Werner didn’t find any matches for Maddie or John Doe from security cameras in the subway system.
From its resolution, the video was taken on a cheap phone. Its number was dead.
Werner looked at angles, at the room Maddie was in, and compared it to millions of other images at its disposal.
It didn’t return with any Eureka message. Maddie could have been in a hotel. She could just as well be in a suburban home.
The book she was writing in was a ruled notebook. Such books were available at any Staples outlet or from any big box store.
Werner looked at lighting and shadows in the room. It couldn’t detect if there was anyone else in the room.
It analyzed Maddie’s voice. It seemed to be normal. She seemed to be happy.
Pizaka and Chang didn’t have any better news. The NYPD’s Police Laboratory was still analyzing the video; their initial findings corroborated Werner’s. Detectives were canvassing Greenport and various stations in the Long Island Rail network. There was no encouraging news to report.
‘Maybe the video is old. From a collection they had at home,’ a lazy voice called out from the co
uch. Zeb’s.
They still assumed it was John Doe who had kidnapped Maddie. No one else had stepped forward to claim the kidnapping. No other suspects had emerged; neither had any ransom note been received.
‘How would John Doe have access to videos in their home?’ Meghan balled a sheet of paper and threw it at the sprawled figure in frustration.
‘No idea. You should ask her.’
‘Pizaka and Chang have tried.’
‘Try harder.’
They went to ask, Zeb playing driver again, in their usual formation. Meghan at the front, Beth behind, the two cops in the rear.
Chang called ahead and made arrangements with the hospital. The hospital said Amy Kittrell wasn’t receiving visitors and it most certainly did not want to talk to the cops.
Chang threatened and pleaded and finally, when he had no choice, he told about the messages. The hospital relented.
He met Zeb’s eyes in the mirror. ‘When was the last time a NYPD cop had to plead?’
They were received by a dark-haired man in an immaculate pinstriped suit. He was as tall as Zeb and moved fluidly forward to shake their hands.
‘Darien Kile, from Kile, Johnson and Cragge.’
A condescending smile flashed briefly.
‘I am Amy Kittrell’s lawyer.’
‘Why would she need a lawyer?’ Pizaka gaped.
The supercilious smile turned on the cop.
‘That’s a question you should ask yourself.’
Amy Kittrell didn’t look any better. Pale, wasted, she lay propped against a pillow and regarded her visitors with an indifferent eye.
‘You found her?’ she whispered.
‘No, ma’am,’ Chang replied.
‘Darien, why are they here?’
‘They said they have some news, ma’am. Maybe you should hear them.’
Chang whipped out his tablet and brought up Maddie’s photograph in Toccoa.
Amy Kittrell straightened as if electrified. She grabbed the tablet and peered at it close.
‘When did you get this? Who sent it?’
Chang told her. ‘We tried calling you,’ he added when he had finished, ‘after our return from Toccoa. The hospital said you weren’t taking visitors.’
‘Where is Toccoa?’
‘In Georgia, ma’am.’
Her forehead furrowed. ‘Is this genuine?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Your daughter was there with the man.’
Beth opened her mouth and closed it when Meghan glared at her across the room and shook her head.
Don’t ask who the man is, Meghan conveyed with her eyes. Beth nodded.
‘We got another message, ma’am.’ Chang played the video.
Maddie’s voice was low and musical in the quiet of the room, as she did the sums. Her mother gripped the tablet with white fingers, tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘When did you get this?’
‘Earlier today, ma’am.’
The mother turned to a calendar on a side table. Eleven dates were crossed out on it, marking each day of her daughter’s disappearance.
‘Ma’am,’ Chang brought her attention back. ‘Is this video familiar? Did you record Maddie doing these sums?’
‘No. Was there any message? Did she call? Any clue?’
Hope bled away from her face when Chang shook his head.
‘Ma’am, both the messages were sent from throwaway phones. We think it was the man who lived with you, who sent it.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Who is he, ma’am?’
Kile stepped forward smoothly.
‘That’s it folks. No more questions.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘Can’t you just question her?’ Meghan asked the cops once they were outside the hospital and away from Kile’s smug face.
Pizaka climbed in the rear of their ride, and buckled himself, before he replied. ‘Her doctors say she still isn’t in a stable condition. Questioning her could damage her recovery.’
‘We certainly have no grounds to charge her.’ Chang joined his partner on the bench seat at the back and gave a thumbs up, at which Zeb swung out and joined the line of vehicles going from point A to B.
‘You guys are treating her like a criminal,’ Beth turned hot eyes on the two cops behind her.
‘You have to admit she is avoiding all our questions,’ Chang replied with equanimity.
Pizaka tidied his hair and adjusted his shades on his face. ‘And now she’s got a lawyer.’
There were cameras usually wherever there were lawyers. Cameras meant Pizaka had to look his best.
Beth looked at her sister for support. She didn’t find any. Meghan had a distant expression on her face, and if she felt Beth’s gaze, she didn’t acknowledge it.
Meghan whipped her head suddenly at Zeb. ‘The office.’
Something in her voice and tone made Zeb floor it.
He overtook the school bus they were behind, surged past two more vehicles, cut across lanes, his lights and horn sounding a warning, and performed an illegal U-turn at a red light.
Beth closed her eyes when a semi loomed large in her window. ‘There’s a reason for going Grand Theft Auto?’ She screamed.
‘The numbers,’ her sister yelled back.
‘We didn’t pay attention to the math problems she was solving.’ Meghan explained as they hurried inside their office.
She grabbed her screen and played the video again. She called out the numbers in the problems to her sister who entered them in a command to Werner.
They waited, after Chang called his team of detectives and gave them a similar task.
Pizaka practiced his golf swings on a strip that was laid out in a corner of the office.
Chang and Beth threw a ball at each other.
Meghan watched Werner.
Zeb watched Meghan.
Werner came back with an answer when offices were turning off their lights, people were hitting subways, making their commute to warm homes and dinners.
No correlation.
‘Are you sure?’ Meghan asked Werner as if it could hear her.
Werner persisted with the answer. Whatever problems Maddie was solving had no link to anything in her life or Amy Kittrell’s life or to the dead Josh Kittrell.
Shadows etched Chang’s face when they had finished discussing the finding.
‘There’s only one thing to do.’
Day twelve dawned like any other day.
The earth had completed its rotation, and was a day further in its circular orbit. It didn’t care what its inhabitants did. It obeyed the laws of gravity and momentum alone.
The man had broken many laws and if caught and convicted, would face serious time. His life, as he knew it, would end.
It didn’t bother him.
He showered, woke the girl, and made breakfast for her.
Cheerios that he had bought from a 7-Eleven, milk from the same store.
He warmed the milk on the electric heater in the tiny kitchen their room came with, filled a bowl with it, poured the cereal in it and served it to her.
She turned on the TV and changed channels till she came to Disney and settled down to watch her favorite show.
He warmed a glass of milk for himself, went to the window and drank it slowly, watching the world below go by.
An hour later, he washed her bowl and gave her more math problems to do. He turned to a news channel when she was occupied and idly watched various politicians and talking heads come and go.
The banner caught his attention first, then the photograph on the screen. He rose suddenly, went to the TV and blocked her view with his body.
He turned the volume down so that he alone could hear the presenter.
His eyes remained fixed on the photograph, while a coldness spread through him.
They didn’t have to do this.
It was a photograph of the girl in Toccoa station.
‘We don’t have a choice, Chang had argued. ‘We have to release
the picture and solicit information.’
The two cops had finally convinced the twins the previous night and Maddie’s picture was beamed by TV stations all across the country into millions of homes and offices.
The hotline started ringing, most of them crank calls. There were several sightings from Toccoa.
By midday, detectives were tracking down various leads. A couple of calls from Brooklyn looked promising. There was a sighting in Greenport.
Though they had leads now, the cops were frustrated at the overall lack of progress. They felt they were being toyed with.
They knew they had no choice but to persevere; cases were cracked in ninety minutes only in Hollywood.
Chuck Keyser saw the photograph that evening when he was back from a run and was having dinner all by himself.
He stopped chewing for a moment, breathed deeply and waited for the skin crawling feeling to stop.
He knew what the photograph meant.
There would be more killing.
Chapter Thirty
The man and the girl were holed up in an apartment in downtown Manhattan on the thirteenth day.
The photograph had changed everything.
The moment he had seen it on TV the previous day, he had packed their duffel bag, jammed the ball cap over the girl’s head, and had grabbed her by the hand and hustled out.
He didn’t bother checking out. Leaving was imperative.
He had peered cautiously on the street and when he didn’t see anyone yelling, or looking in his direction and pointing, he had brought the girl out.
He had joined a bunch of tourists and had taken the subway to Central Park.
He took the girl into the depths of the park and when he came to a secluded area, he brought out a pair of scissors.
He grabbed her by the shoulder and looked her in the eye. ‘I need to cut your hair.’
The girl squealed and protested, but settled down when she saw the look in his eyes.
He chopped her hair, made it short like a boy’s, and collected the loose hair in a baggie.
