Goodbye Sister Disco (16 page)

It occurred to Hastings then that Gabler was making this up as he went along. They were in it now and there was only so much planning you could do and then the planning was useless and you had to move and think quickly. They had no communication with Penmark now. He was just a man they could see, but not talk with. They didn't know what the kidnappers had said to him or were saying to him. Things were confused and frenetic now and there was goddamn little they could do about it.

Hastings said into to his two-way, “What do you want me to do?” He would have felt more comfortable directing the thing himself. Not so much out of pride but because it's usually less stressful to be in the action than to have to watch it helplessly.

“Just stay there for a minute,” Gabler said. For he wasn't sure himself. Gabler thought he should tell Hastings to get back to his own car and wait for a directive, but his gut told him to hold off on that and his gut was mostly what he was working on now.

*   *   *

Craig Kubiak would later say that he had handled the situation appropriately. Or, at a minimum, that he had done the best he could. The kidnapper had expressly warned Penmark that if he saw a federal agent around Penmark, he would kill his daughter. Yet everyone knew that they did not have the option of leaving Penmark entirely alone. That was not possible. So they had to be with him without being on him. With him without being seen. Besides, everyone involved knew that the thing had not gone as planned. As much as such things can be planned.

What Craig Kubiak would not admit to anyone was that he'd first felt a sense of doom when he saw Penmark move toward the MetroLink train depot at Laclede's Landing. Penmark had a good lead on him and right away, Kubiak felt his heart thud and his immediate thought was, Please, God, don't let him board that train without me.

Which is exactly what happened.

Craig Kubiak got to the turnstile and jumped it, bringing the attention of a couple of uniformed transit officers, in that moment Kubiak telling himself that being exposed was worth the risk, was better than letting Gene Penmark board that train without him, but it didn't matter, perhaps would not have mattered even if the transit cops hadn't gotten in his way, because the train was rolling away before he could even identify himself.

TWENTY-TWO

“George.”

It was Gabler on the two-way.

“Yeah.”

“Uh, Craig lost him. He's on the fucking train. It's going west.”

“Oh, shit. He got on at Laclede's?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm in the pickup. I'm right—”

Hastings saw the Dodge Ram pickup roaring toward him, Gabler getting frantic now.

Hastings jumped in the passenger side.

He said to Gabler, “The next stop is the Convention Center.
Go.
”

The truck screeched off, tires peeling on the cobblestone road. They raced up the inclines, accelerating and decelerating as traffic and obstacles would allow. And when they were out of Laclede's Landing, Gabler pushed the throttle almost to the floor and then they were in downtown traffic, both of them thinking, Christ, Gene Penmark is alone now, all alone, and God knows what could happen.

The MetroLink goes through an underground tunnel through most of downtown St. Louis. So they could not even see the train. It was a short drive from the Laclede's stop to the Convention Center station, but the train had gotten a good jump on them.

“There,” Hastings said. And Gabler stepped on the brakes and brought the pickup to a stop just as Hastings jumped out, and then Hastings was running, closing the distance between the truck and the stairs, descending into the station.

The train was by the platform, but the horn sounded as Hastings reached the bottom stair. He sprinted and caught the doors of the last car and squeezed in before they shut tight. Then the train was moving out of the Convention Center station, continuing in underground tunnel.

Hastings kept his mouth closed, his heart pounding from the exhaustion of the run, which he didn't want to demonstrate to the other people on the train. So many. Fifty thousand riders a day on a normal day and this was the Christmas shopping season. He was in the last car. He reached out and grabbed a pole so he would look like an average person and not a policeman. And he moved closer to the pole so no one would be able to see the strap under his jacket, which held his .38 snub-nose revolver in place.

The train gathered speed, the black walls of the tunnel whizzed by in the windows, light and white.

Hastings saw a discarded newspaper lying on a seat. He picked it up, folded it, and started to move forward, looking for Gene Penmark and the people he might meet.

*   *   *

Gene Penmark had boarded the third car from the front, but remembering the man's instructions had moved up to the second. He took a seat in the center of that car. He felt lucky to find one. He was not a man to look at people and even now he did not look at the other passengers to see if one of them might be watching him.

Two of them were, however. At one end of the car was Mickey. He was wearing a black raincoat and he had a suit and white shirt and tie on underneath. He was of slim build, his cheekbones prominent, and he wore glasses and his hair was cut short. He did not look like a revolutionary or a terrorist. He looked like a young executive. In his hands was that day's
Wall Street Journal.

Near the other end of the car was Toby Eagle. With his black hair pulled back in a ponytail, he almost looked more Cherokee than Kiowa, which was what he was. He wore jeans and a T-shirt and a black leather coat that came down over his waist.

Gene Penmark felt his Nextel phone thrum and heard it ring a moment later. He pulled it out of his pocket and answered it.

“Yes.”

“Gene. Are you on the train?”

“Yes.”

“You're where I told you to be?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You can take the backpack off now. Put it under your seat.”

Penmark undid the straps and slid the backpack under his seat.

Terrill said, “Have you done it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We're almost home now. Is the next stop Union Station?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to get off there. And after that, I want you to walk to the Sunshine Café. The big one with all those tables. You will buy a coffee and take a seat at one of those tables. You are to stay there for thirty minutes. No telephoning, no communicating with anyone. You stay at that table for thirty minutes. If you don't, we'll know about it. Are we clear?”

“Yes, but what about my daughter?”

“If everything is in order, we'll release her in two hours.”

“That's not right. You told me—”

“First things first, Gene. We can't take chances.”

“But you have to hold up your part of the agreement.”

“We will. If you don't comply with my instructions, you know what will happen. Is the stop coming up?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Leave it, Gene.”

And the voice was gone.

Gene Penmark felt very alone. He looked about the car, looked at faces that didn't look back at him. Strangers. He stood up.

*   *   *

Hastings walked through cars, looking at faces. He didn't see Penmark in the first four cars and he started to worry that Penmark might have gotten off at the Convention Center stop and taken another train west and was now in Illinois. But he kept going and then he was looking in the window of the second car from the front and he saw Gene Penmark sitting on the other side.

The train was slowing.

And Gene Penmark was standing up.

Hastings stepped back and pulled out his two-way.

“George?” Gabler said.

“Yeah,” Hastings said, “he's here. We're coming up to the Union Station stop. It looks like he's getting off.” Hastings looked at Penmark's back and saw that he no longer had the money.

Hastings said, “He's dumped the ransom. If he gets off, I'm going to stay on to see if I can find who picks it up.”

He hadn't asked Gabler if that would be all right. He knew that Gabler didn't know the right call any better than he did. Besides, Gabler wasn't here.

Gabler said, “Okay, George. I'm going to Union Station; I'll find Penmark. Good luck.”

Hastings put the two-way back in his jacket pocket and opened the door to the car and moved in. The train was slowing now, coming to a stop. Gene Penmark was walking toward the doors. Hastings stayed where he was, did not go to him. He prayed in that moment that Penmark would not turn around and see him, would not turn around and acknowledge recognition with his eyes. That could get them both killed, if Hastings's instinct was correct. Hastings turned around, his back now to Penmark.

When he turned and looked over his shoulder, Penmark was stepping off the train. The doors closed behind him and the bell sounded. And then all Hastings could do was glance through the window at Penmark as the train left the station. Hastings thought, If I'm right, I'll know soon enough. He'd made a decision and he was stuck with it; Penmark was off the train and Hastings was still on it.

Hastings took a seat near the door through which he had come in. He cast a casual eye on the place where Penmark had been sitting. The seats on the train were arranged like those on an airplane, so Hastings could not see what, if anything, Penmark had left on his seat. Or under it. Hastings didn't know. And now Penmark was gone, so he couldn't ask him. Penmark was gone but the money was probably still here, probably still on the train. Which meant that the man who wanted that money was on the train as well.

But who? Which one of these people?

There were between twenty and thirty other passengers on the car. Women, children, students, workers … shoppers holding bright-colored shopping bags from St. Louis Centre with Christmas gifts in them. Clothes, toys, DVDs, and video games. Too many people. Too goddamn many.

Hastings unfolded his newspaper, thinking that if there was a man on this train to collect the money, he was probably looking out for someone like Hastings. Looking for a cop. Hastings was hunting for a man, but the quarry could turn around and shoot back if he was of a mind to. And if that quarry was here, he would no doubt be capable of doing it.

The train was out of the tunnel now, above ground, and gray light was changing the complexion of the passenger compartment. The people in the car became easier to consider and discern. A young guy in a Chicago Bears jacket and wearing one of those young-guy goatees took a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on. Hastings began to pick up snatches of conversation. Weather, sports, the shopping season, children's Christmas programs, work, family coming into town for the holidays, entertainment. Between cracking the pages of the newspaper, Hastings would look into the faces of the passengers and try to eliminate the ones who would be unlikely to pick up a bag stuffed with two million dollars. An old man wearing a homburg; a heavyset woman in her fifties wearing a jacket with Bugs Bunny on the back; a woman with two small children; two younger guys having an animated discussion about the point spreads on the upcoming college bowl games.

It was helping, but he couldn't eliminate everyone. And as Hastings discarded the obvious and impossible, he became more and more convinced that his man was on the train. He could not see the money, could not see the bag, but he knew he had seen Penmark step off the train without it. He had a sense of where Penmark had been sitting, where he could have left the money. There was no one sitting there now. Hastings knew he could confirm it for himself just by getting up and walking over there. But if he did that, he would expose himself to the other man—the man who was there to take the money. Maybe the man would shoot him then. Or maybe the man would just quietly get off the train and make a telephone call that would end the life of Cordelia Penmark. It was a tough thing, having to sit there quietly looking for someone who could be looking for him.

The train was bending around a turn now, and Hastings could see the car ahead angle into view, passengers on that one too. They were almost at the Grand Boulevard station. People were starting to gather their things and get ready to get off. And then some of them were on their feet, shuffling to the doors.

And that was when Hastings saw it. A man in a black raincoat, moving down the aisle, so casually, so nonchanlantly, so
normally,
that Hastings would later wonder if the man had been on some sort of sedative or had once been in the theater, and the man stopped and reached under the seat and picked up a blue backpack and then was carrying it as if he had owned it since childhood. Not a trace of guilt or embarrassment colored his expression. For a second, even Hastings thought the man in the raincoat owned the bag.

Hastings followed him off the train and into the station, Hastings falling in behind him. The man in the black raincoat neither slowing nor hurrying when he walked past the newspaper stand and Dr Pepper concession booth, and then that was behind them as the man in the black raincoat went into the men's room.

Hastings hesitated before entering the bathroom. Conscious of the two-way radio in his jacket pocket, but telling himself then, right then, that the man in the raincoat could be aware that he was being tailed and could be setting up a machine-gun turret if Hastings hesitated too long, so Hastings kept going, acting on gut instinct, wondering then if the man in the black raincoat was going to transfer the money from the bookbag to another container because that was what Hastings would have done in his place, and Hastings pushed the door open and then he was inside.

It was like most bathrooms at a metropolitan train station. Dirty white tile, beige doors on the stalls that had seen their share of kicks, the sort of metallike mirrors that are difficult to smash.

The man in the black raincoat was standing in front of one of the stalls, looking directly at Hastings. Not smiling, not frowning. Not looking surprised or alarmed either …