Got the Look (25 page)

Chapter
37

Her days were beginning to bleed together.

Mia had struggled desperately to keep track of time. It was a huge challenge, especially since her captor had moved her to this new room. She was no longer blindfolded twenty-four hours a day, but there were no windows, and he allowed the light on for only short periods of time. Perhaps most disorienting of all - and the reason, she surmised, that she'd been moved to another room - was the complete absence of external sounds. Even when she pressed her ear to the floor or wall, she heard nothing to distinguish night from day. It was like living in a soundproof cocoon, no traffic noises outside the building, no television newscasts playing in the next room, not even the sound of water passing through pipes. In the old room, at least, she'd been able to discern something beyond her own four walls, even if it was just a dull, throbbing sound in the background. It was impossible to know what those faint, distant noises might have been, but she'd settled on a construction crew working on a road or a building, which at least let her conjure up images of daylight and civilization. Without those sounds, the best gauge of time was the number of meals her captor served and the number of bathroom breaks. That worked for a while, but he seemed wise to her counting. Meals started to come irregularly, sometimes not until she was famished, other times when she wasn't hungry at all. She would be forced to endure a long stretch without a bathroom break, and then he'd give her two in a row, almost back to back. If his intention had been to thwart her efforts to keep track of time, it worked. She was now officially clueless as to how long it had been since her abduction.

This guy has kidnapped before, she realized.

She checked her injured toe. A scab was just beginning to form, which told her that it had probably been a few short days since he'd moved her from the old room - since he'd crushed her toe and videotaped her screams. It seemed like weeks.

Can this go on for months? Or even years? She wondered if she would eventually come to measure the passage of time by the hours or days between his sadistic urges, if someday her only frame of reference between attacks might be how long the bruising took to subside. The very idea made her nauseous, and she forced herself not to think such dark thoughts. In a way, she'd been lucky so far. Horrible as it had been, the mangled big toe was her only physical wound. Apart from that one violent episode, her captor seemed content to videotape her sponge-bathing or defecating in a plastic bucket, all exercises in breaking her spirit, total humiliation. She feared, however, that it was only a matter of time before he became bored with the voyeurism and psychological games. He would want something more.

Money, she prayed silently. Lord, let it be money he wants.

But who would pay it?

The doorknob turned, which gave her a start. The door opened a crack, and his voice filled the room. Get down, turn around, and face the wall.

On her knees, she slid across the floor and stared into the corner, her back to the door. This was their routine, and it marked the end of her reward session, a period of an hour or so during which he allowed her to keep the blindfold off and the light on. The sessions followed a familiar pattern. He would enter the dark room with a flashlight. The beam of light in her eyes and a mask or nylon stocking over his head prevented her from seeing his face. He'd bring her a bottled water and a sandwich, turkey this time, other times roast beef. He'd unfasten the bindings on her legs and wrists, tell her to face the wall, and then remove her blindfold. On his way out, he'd switch on the ceiling light. The fixture had three sockets but only one bulb, maybe forty watts, at most sixty. Alone, she'd have time to eat and move around inside her dimly lit room. Three paces wide, four paces long. She'd walk in circles, run in place, do yoga stretches - anything to distract herself and get the heart pumping from something other than fear. It was the kidnap victim's version of recess.

It always ended too soon.

Do you need to go to the bathroom? he asked.

She did, but it wasn't urgent, and she was certain that he had that damn camera with him again. No, she said. Then she waited. The next step in their routine was the return of the bindings and the blindfold, but the familiar sound of his footfalls across the room didn't come.

I'll leave this right here for you, he said. Don't turn around until I'm gone.

The door closed, and it took her a moment to absorb the break in the usual pattern. She'd dreaded the return to lights out and sensory deprivation. But those fears had not been realized. The light remained on. Mia was still free to move about, free to take in her dank surroundings. Slowly, she turned and spotted a red plastic bucket on the floor near the door. Her bladder was fuller than she'd led her captor to believe. It wasn't her usual bathroom bucket, but for once she had privacy, and it would certainly do the trick.

She rose and started to unbutton her pants as she crossed the room, then stopped short as she reached for the bucket. Something was already in it.

A lightbulb.

She stood motionless, staring into the bucket. It appeared to be an ordinary incandescent bulb, but Mia couldn't tear her eyes away from it. Her imagination was working overtime, and in her mind's eye she could see the lightbulb smashing against the wall. She could hear the familiar pop, the explosion of glass into hundreds of shards that would fall to the floor like lethal snowflakes. They would be sharp, razor sharp, and she would select one large enough to do the job. It was more of an impulse than a plan. Either way, she didn't act on it. The bulb was right there inside the bucket, well within reach, almost beckoning to her. But it was as if her hands were glued to her side.

Why a lightbulb? she wondered. Why had he left it for her? Only one answer came to mind. This was no coincidence. She wasn't being paranoid. Mia had yet to see her captor's face, but the lightbulb - the image of the broken lightbulb - was the breakthrough she'd never really wanted.

She suspected that they'd met before, and she assumed that the lightbulb was a pointed reminder - a reminder of how she'd ended up with that scar on her inner thigh.

Chapter
38

Jack was driving from the LeJeune Diner to his office when he took the phone call from Andie Henning. She wanted to know if Mia had kept a toothbrush or hairbrush at Jack's house. Or maybe a tube of lipstick. She did, Jack told her. But I got rid of all that stuff when I found out she was married. It was sort of therapeutic spring-cleaning for me.

Damn, was all she said.

The traffic light changed, and Jack braked, even though it was the leading cause of death in south Florida - putting yourself at the mercy of some joker behind you who, red light be damned, is determined to race through any intersection that isn't blocked by at least six squad cars, a jackknifed tractor trailer, and several fallen trees.

Why do you need a DNA sample? Jack was playing dumb, but it seemed okay to ask about DNA even though Andie hadn't explicitly mentioned it.

I can't tell you why.

What a shock. Hold on a second, I need a jolt from my defibrillator. Clear!

Very funny. Would you mind meeting me at your house, please? I'd like to bring a forensic guy with me. If you're like most single men, you probably haven't washed your linens since the first Gulf War. Maybe we can find a hair on a pillowcase or something.

Ordinarily, Jack would have resisted until he got a satisfactory answer, but he was just as eager as the FBI was to find out if Mia was Teresa. He agreed to meet her at eleven o'clock.

Jack arrived home a little early. He took the extra time to drift through the house, searching for traces of Mia - not the faded photographs and tickets torn in half that someone whose name Jack couldn't remember had sung about in the sixties, but trace evidence that the FBI might find useful. He started in the bathroom, and ooh, baby, was it ever a mess again. Mia had forced him to keep it reasonably clean while they were dating, but it had since reverted to the kind of hellhole that only Theo could be proud of. Hopefully the FBI forensic expert had handled a few mass murders or natural disaster sites - something that would give him the stomach to enter Jack's bathroom.

Jack walked to the kitchen and grabbed a soda from the refrigerator. Alone in the house, he finally had some quiet time to digest his conversation with Cassandra. The possibility that her sister Teresa had turned herself into Mia started to play on his mind. A week earlier, he would have told anyone that Mia deserved an Academy Award, the way she'd fooled him into thinking she was unmarried. That gig, however, was nothing compared to assuming an entirely new life and a new identity. Then again, maybe it was easier to become someone else entirely and forget that the other you had ever lived. There was no switching back and forth between roles, no two sets of friends, no stress over having to be in two places at the same time. At some point, didn't everyone want to chuck it all, wipe the slate clean, and start over? In some ways, it could be fun. It depended on what you were running from - and whether you could ever really leave it all behind.

His cell phone rang, and he figured Henning was calling to tell him she was running late. Of course, she wouldn't be able to tell him why.

Jack opened the flip phone and checked the display, but it wasn't Henning. It was another Out of Area call from an undisclosed number. His pulse quickened, and his suspicions were confirmed just as soon as he said hello.

You got my money, Swyteck? The voice was deeper than before, slower and less robotic sounding. Mia's kidnapper had apparently found himself a new toy in the voice-alteration department of the local spy shop.

Only if you're willing to let her go, said Jack.

Anything's possible.

Jack started to pace, slowly circling the center island in his kitchen. Like I said before, I don't like to deal in possibilities. I need some certainties.

He snorted. Sorry, dude. This kidnapping doesn't come with a money-back guarantee.

I'm not asking for that. I just want to take some of the guesswork out of the ransom payment.

Then pay me what she's worth, and you've got nothing to worry about.

Jack stopped at the sink and opened the window. The kitchen hadn't seemed hot prior to the phone call, but he suddenly could use the breeze. Here's what I'll do for you. When I got divorced, I was required to file a net worth statement with the court. That was a couple years ago, and some things are outdated. My Mustang, for example, got torched last year, so that's out. On the other hand, I'm doing a little better in the law practice than I was back then. Anyway, I updated it, and it's all there in black and white. Total disclosure.

What kind of crap is this?

Please, just listen. To show you that I'm dealing in good faith, I'll post my current net worth statement on my home page on the Internet, www-dot-jackswyteck-dot-com. Go there, check it out, then let's talk again. Ask me anything you want.

Fine. Here's a question for you: Are you trying to get your girlfriend killed?

I just want to see if we can agree on a number. Something everyone can live with. The pun was completely unintentional.

We're going to do this my way, not yours. I told you yesterday that you bought yourself another twenty-four hours. Time's up.

I'm not looking for a major delay.

No delays. Period. Do you understand me?

Jack couldn't put the thought of Ashley Thornton and her husband's million-dollar ransom out of his mind. He had to push this guy to cut a deal, but to do that, he needed to take control. He had to do something to let this loser know that he wasn't as clever as he thought he was, that Jack wasn't going to fall into the same trap as Mr. Thornton. Then, maybe, he would have some power to negotiate. Let me ask you a question, pal.

I'm through with the questions.

Would you -

I'll hang up.

Would you say -

Don't push me, asshole.

Would you say Mia's got the look?

There was silence on the line. Jack was leaning against the kitchen counter, his hand shaking, but he was certain that the caller was still there.

That's a very good question, Jack. Can I call you Jack? The voice was calm and steady, no sign of distress.

Sure. Got one more for ya, though.

What's that?

Should I tell the FBI about these questions that keep percolating around in my mind? Or do you think maybe this is something you and I would rather keep to ourselves? It was a bluff, of course, since the FBI probably knew at least as much as he did. But Jack alone was in direct communication with the kidnapper, the only person in a position to play the bluff.

Nothing like secrets between friends, is there, Jack?

Nothing like it.

I'll look at your Web site.

Good. One other thing.

Name it.

You didn't answer my question.

There was another pause, then an empty chuckle. Yeah. Even after the plastic surgery. I'd say your girlfriend's still got the look.

The caller disconnected, and Jack stood alone in his kitchen.

Chapter
39

Andie and her forensic specialist showed up at Jack's house just a few minutes after the call from the kidnapper. The logical starting point for forensics was the closet where Mia kept her clothes whenever she spent the night. Jack pointed the specialist in the right direction. As soon as he disappeared into the bedroom down the hall, Andie looked at Jack and said, Tell me.