Blood of Angels (31 page)

“No,” I answer. “People pick stuff up in prison, but I don't see him taking this on. Anyway, it's not his style. He uses his brains, not a lot of sophisticated equipment.”

Myers looks out into the backyard. “Once you get off the patio, it's dark back here.” He leads us back to the dining room, where Newton is plugging his own phone into the system. Newton looks up and says, “You ready for me to call Sprint?” Myers nods, and Newton dials a number. We hear it ring over the computer's speakers. On the third ring, a surprisingly young, female voice answers.

“This is Blair Kipling, Sprint technical officer. I'm here to assist you.”

Myers and Newton exchange looks. “Agent Myers here,” Myers says. “With me is Agent Newton and Thomas Dennehy.”

“I have Mr. Dennehy's phone on my screen now.”

Myers reaches over and mutes the microphone. “She sounds sixteen, Newt.”

Newton nods. “We're probably only gonna get one shot on this. You want to go over her head?”

Myers turns the mic back on. “Listen, Ms…. Kipling, was it?”

“That's right, sir. Blair Kipling.”

“Can I ask how long you've held this position, Ms. Kipling?”

“Two months, sir.” There's a pause. “This is my first actual law enforcement call.”

Myers winces. “Is anybody there who might have had a little more experience at this kind of thing?”

“I'm fully qualified for this position, sir.”

“That wasn't the question, Kipling.”

“I'm the only law enforcement–certified technician available at the moment, sir.”

Myers gives Newton another look, and Newton shrugs. “Glad to have you on the team, Ms. Kipling,” Myers says.

“Thank you, sir. I'm monitoring Mr. Dennehy's phone now. The manual suggests we keep this line open while we wait.”

“The manual.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, Ms. Kipling, that's what we'll do.”

“Very good, sir.”

Myers shakes his head. “Where's that coffee?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“I'm talking to somebody here, Kipling. I'll let you know when we need you.” He reaches over and mutes the microphone. “Beautiful. She just graduated from third grade.”

 

THE WAITING BEGINS
. Myers sits up straight, eyes clear, his mind clearly working even when no one talks. Newton is less patient; he fiddles with his equipment, drums his fingers, fidgets. Bec can't stand staring at the phone any longer; sometime deep in the night she goes upstairs, although I know she's not sleeping. At 5:30, a thin line of yellow breaks outside, signaling another day is beginning. Maria comes in with more coffee and goes to make breakfast.

Myers pulls his gaze off the phone and looks at me. “This fucker Bridges has got to be loving this,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“We can't do shit here.”

Newton grumbles in his chair and pushes a button on his computer. “You still there, Kipling?”

“Yes, sir. Still here.”

“Just checking.”

Newton grumbles something unintelligible and slumps down in his chair.

I'm past exhaustion, into something like a dull, horrible buzzing state. My eyes are burning, and I close them.

My phone rings.

“Fuck,” Newton says, jerking upright. “You on this, Kipling?”

“Yes, sir,” the voice says. “Just a moment.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Newton whispers. “Come on baby, talk to me.”

“Do I answer it?” I ask.

“Does he answer it, Kipling?”

“Yes, sir. Answer the phone.”

I press “talk.” “Bridges? Is that you, Bridges?”

“I have it, sir,” Kipling says. “It's not a voice call. You're receiving an SMS signal. It might be a picture.”

“What's the ID number, Kipling?” Newton says.

A pause. “It's 477911009CDMA.”

Newton is typing while she talks. “Come on, come on, come on.” We sit, tense, while the picture downloads. When it pops onto the screen, it's fairly dark, and the picture isn't clear. I stare, just to be sure, stand, and walk away from the table.

“What is it?” Myers demands, moving to look. “I can't figure this out.”

I look over and see Bec in the doorway. She starts toward the table, and I grab her arm to stop her. She wrenches it away and walks to the table. Slowly, she leans over. A second passes, and she turns toward me, horror in her eyes. “It's a birthmark on my daughter's inner thigh,” she says quietly. “Which means she's nude.”

“Jesus,” Myers says, sitting down. The picture completes, and the call ends. He looks at Newton. “Tell me you have him,” he says.

Newton is staring at his computer screen, typing commands. He looks up. “I don't get it. It didn't lock.”

Myers stares. “You sure? Was there a good signal?”

“The signal was excellent,” Kipling says, over the speaker. “The odds of a successful triangulation were ninety-four percent.”

Newton looks up. “It locked on two towers almost instantly. But it never got a third.”

Myers stands up, frustrated. “Dammit! There are five towers near here. It should be a piece of cake.”

I look at Myers. “You didn't get him.”

He shakes his head. “I'm sorry. Look, it's a fluke. He'll call back; we'll nail him.”

I nod and walk out of the room.
Always a step ahead. Always smarter than we are.

 

I SPEND AN HOUR ALONE
, trying to exorcize my demons. It's impossible to let myself think about where Jazz is, but great, horrifying chasms of empty time stretch out in front of me, tempting hideous images into my mind. I'm afraid to close my eyes because Bridges waits in the darkness, and Jazz is there with him. Compounding everything is the sense of helplessness. Bridges is in control of everything, reducing us to nothing more than waiting. I don't know why Newton and the FBI can't lock down from where Bridges is calling, but it doesn't surprise me. There was no way in hell he wouldn't have figured that out. This is the culmination of seven years of planning, and we're along for the ride.

I finally wander back into the dining room to see Sarandokos standing in the doorway, wearing a tailored suit. “I'm going to Channel Four,” he says.

Myers looks up, surprised. “What's he talking about?”

“He's offering a reward,” I say. “A million dollars.”

“Why didn't I know anything about this?”

“Because it doesn't concern you,” Sarandokos replies. “I'm offering the money for Jasmine's return, no questions asked.”

“Wait a minute; we have to sort this out. We've got to coordinate.”

“There's nothing to coordinate,” Sarandokos snaps. “Your equipment isn't working, is it?”

“That's not the point.”

“And so far you have nothing, correct?”

“Look, you're gonna open a whole can of worms with this.”

“I find, Agent Myers, that greed is a great equalizer. Jasmine is going to be dead soon unless something changes. So I will make it change.” He walks out. Rebecca waits for him by the door. He hugs her, and she turns and goes back upstairs.

“Great,” Myers says. “We're going to have every fruitcake in town sending us on snipe hunts.”

“It doesn't matter,” I say quietly. “It can't be any worse than sitting here on the end of Bridges's chain.”

Newton grumbles and shifts in his chair. “When are those other agents getting here?”

Myers looks at his watch. “By eight,” he says. “They're sending Goodman, Jordan, and Chavez. They're going over the house.”

“Wonderful. When they finish that, they can sit here and watch this damn phone with us.” Newton grunts and settles into his chair. “I'm gonna paint a fucking
S
on this guy's shirt when we find him. How he manages to connect a phone call with that kind of signal strength and it can't be triangulated is beyond me. Maybe we need to get some damn Kryptonite or something.”

Myers reaches over and mutes the microphone. “I'll be outside,” he says. “I can't take staring at this thing anymore.”

The day stretches before us like a festering wound. Every minute makes it blacker and deeper, and the knowledge that the waiting gives Bridges pleasure is enough to make me go mad. Like the horror of the day, my anger deepens, until I can't see anything but Bridges in my mind, and the thought of a bullet entering his brain, his face contorted in surprise and agony.

I don't watch Sarandokos make his pitch on TV, although Myers and Newton do. When I walk by the dining table afterward, Myers shakes his head and says, “He gave his home phone number. I'd give it about an hour before the nutcases start in.”

Myers's prediction turns out to be optimistic; it's less than twenty before the calls start, and Myers is forced to take the first several, before Sarandokos gets back. When Michael finally returns, Myers hands him the phone. “Here,” he says. “This was your idea. You can deal with it.”

The agents who were due at 8:00 show up seven minutes late, earning them a sharp reprimand from Myers. The three officers—two men and a woman—unload their equipment and start through the house, examining it room by room. At least it's something to watch. But I don't care what they find, since they'll never find it in time to help Jazz.

Myers lets the agents work on the dining room first, then banishes them to keep them out of our hair. It's necessary, but it means that staying out of their way relegates us to two rooms of the house for the duration. Myers, Newton, and I gather once again around the table, exhausted and tense.

“This could go on for a while, you know?” Newton says. “I mean, think about it.”

Myers nods. “The cops are out looking for him, though. There's risk in stretching it out too long.”

“How long as it been since the last call? Maybe he's setting up a pattern.”

Myers looks at his watch. “A little more than three hours,” he says.

“It feels like ten,” Newton says, leaning back in his chair.

 

BY THE TIME MARIA
brings in sandwiches at 11:00, we're crawling in our skins. “Eat, Señor Dennehy,” she says. “You must keep up your strength.” Her eyes are swollen with crying; she loves Jazz like her own daughter, and even though she's staying out of the way, I know what's happened is hard on her.

Myers and Newton dig in hungrily, but I ignore the food. I catch myself falling asleep, blanking out for minutes at a time. It's becoming clear I can't go on like this much longer. At some point, I'm going to have to get some actual rest.

I drift out for long enough that when the phone jerks me back awake, I have no idea how long I've been out. I stare over at Newton, who is punching keys on his computer. “We're on, man,” he says. “You getting this, Kipling?”

“Yes, sir. He's changed phones. Give me a moment, please.”

Newton is staring at the signal strength on his computer screen, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ, he's pegging the meters. We're gonna get him. I'm telling you, he's toast.”

“I have him, sir,” Kipling says. “It's a Motorola V600. Just give me a second, please.”

Newton looks over at me. “They're easier to track.”

“That's correct, sir. Just a second…44386508GSM1. Do you have it?”

Newton types. “Come on, you lousy son of a bitch. I know you're out there somewhere. Come to Papa.”

“It's another picture,” I say, filling with dread. I look and turn away in horror. The picture shows the same part of Jasmine's upper leg, but now the birthmark has been removed. Whatever he used to slice off the birthmark, it was razor sharp and wielded with precision. Tiny droplets of blood ooze from the wound. I stand and walk to the wall, holding my sides. Like before, Bec appears in the doorway. She sees me, and I shake my head. “Don't,” I whisper.

She slumps, holding herself up by the door. Maria comes in, and I motion her toward Bec. She gets Bec turned around, and they vanish back upstairs.

I turn to Newton. “Did you get it?”

Newton is pounding away, his expression confused. “Dammit! Come on, you son of a bitch!”

“Are you getting it, sir?” Kipling asks. “The signal is excellent.”

Newton types a few more seconds, then looks up, the color drained from his face. “I can't explain it,” he says, slumping down in his chair. “The fucking
CIA
can't defeat this thing. It's physics, man.”

Myers strides to Newton's computer. “What the hell's going on, Newt?”

“I don't know. I've got a rock-solid signal, and I simply can't triangulate it. Dammit!”

I didn't know exactly when my point of collapse would come, but this is it. I walk to the wall, turn, and slide on my back down to the floor. I close my eyes. I know that I'm going away now, and I don't care. I'll be back, although I'm not sure in what condition. But it is simply no longer possible for me to count second after second with Jazz in the clutches of a man I now understand is a complete monster.

“Sir?” Blair Kipling's voice comes over the speaker, but I barely notice.

“Not now, Kipling.” Myers walks over and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I'm sorry,” he says. “We did our best. He's just…I don't know. We just can't crack the thing, that's all.”

“Sir?”

Myers turns, his expression irritated. “What is it, Kipling?”

“I was just going to say, sir. The Nokia 475 is a GSM-1 compatible phone.”

“Thanks for the information.”

“That particular model receives SMS text messages, even when the phone is turned off.” Myers motions to Newton to mute. “What I'm saying, sir, is that I can turn on the GPS feature inside that phone remotely.”