Got the Look (40 page)

One other thing, he said as he pressed a 9 mm Glock pistol into Jack's hand.

Henning said no weapons.

Henning isn't toting a suitcase full of cash.

Jack had used one before, but there was still something about holding a gun that gave him a rush. He unzipped the backpack and dropped the gun inside, among the bundles of hundred-dollar bills. All I need now is the musical theme from The Godfather.

Theo started humming.

That's Love Story, you moron.

Sorry. At least I was in the right decade.

Jack slammed the trunk lid closed. Theo was trying to play it cool, but Jack could see the concern in his eyes. It's gonna be fine, said Jack.

It ain't what I'm worried about. Just let me follow behind you, like twenty yards or so, in case something goes wrong.

Jack shook his head. If he spots you, he'll think you're FBI. And that's bad news for Mia.

You could say the same thing about the FBI.

At some point we have to trust Henning when she says the FBI can cover me without being detected. Besides, if they see you stalking me, they might unload on you.

So, you just want me to sit here?

Keep your cell phone on. If I get a bad feeling about this, I have you on speed dial.

At what point should I just come lookin' for you?

You hear something that sounds like a badger with its tongue caught in a bear trap, I'd say that's a good time to come running.

They exchanged little smiles. Then Theo wished him luck, and Jack headed into the forest. The footpath was narrow, and without a flashlight he would have been lost immediately. Splashes of moonlight broke through the occasional opening in the leafy canopy, lighting up the Spanish moss that clung to the tree limbs like tattered old fishing nets. The ground was soggy in spots, and if Jack listened carefully, he could hear the gentle sounds of moving water not too far off, the Santa Fe River. Wildlife chimed in, the croak of bullfrogs, the screech of a bird in the darkness, perhaps a heron or an osprey. After several minutes of hiking through the brush, over fallen logs, and around ant mounds, Jack came to a clearing and read the sign. Wilderness campsites were filled on a first-come, first-served basis, no reservations. Nice and convenient for last-minute planners and kidnappers alike. Jack continued down that path, passing several tents in the darkness. Maybe it was because he was literally on a rescue mission, but these little pockets of shelter seemed unusually flimsy and vulnerable. They were just nylon on sticks, modest protection from wind and rain but not much else. Anywhere along this isolated trail, it seemed so easy for a man with a knife and no conscience to get away with murder.

Finally, just before the footpath began a long curve around a cluster of cypress trees, Jack's journey came to an end. The beam of his flashlight bathed the marker to campsite 27.

Jack was supposed to be there at 2 A. M., and he was right on time. He had no instructions on what to do upon arrival, but he was practicing his lines in his head. Simultaneous exchange. Nonnegotiable.

His flashlight swept the site, coming to rest on his first surprise. A red nylon tent was perched on the highest ground, which in Florida meant an elevation of perhaps six inches. Somehow, Jack had built up an expectation of a vacant site. He wondered if some camper had simply decided to pitch his tent there, unwittingly jeopardizing Mia's release. Or had the kidnapper himself pitched the tent there to stake his claim to the site? Perhaps the tent itself would play some part in the plan.

He switched off his flashlight, allowing his pupils to adust to the moonlit sky. The minutes slowly ticked away, and as his night vision improved, his speculation kicked in. Was it possible that the kidnapper himself was inside the tent? No way, couldn't be. But the tent had to be there for a reason. Jack checked his cell phone. He had service, so if the kidnapper wanted to reach him, the call would come through. Jack tried to recount their last phone conversation word for word. Be there at two A. M. was what he remembered. And of course, there was the warning not to bring in the FBI, which Jack had ignored. He looked around, and if the FBI was out there, they were certainly doing a bang-up job of making it look as if they weren't. Maybe they were in some of the tents he'd passed along the way.

Jack took two steps toward the red tent and stopped. He picked up a stone, tossed it toward the tent, and waited to see if anything stirred inside. Nothing. He pitched a handful of pebbles, enough noise to waken even the soundest sleeper, but there was no response. Either no one was inside, or someone was in there lying in wait. Unless, of course, the someone was Mia. She could have been tied up, unable to respond. Or dead. The scene at the Whitmore Nursery flashed through Jack's mind - the dirt flying, his heart racing as he unearthed the bag of human remains. He wondered if that had been a prelude to this evening, a sick trial run before Jack raced inside the tent and unzipped the sleeping bag only to find

He stopped, refusing to let that image form. On impulse, he hurried across the campsite and went straight to the tent entrance. He unzipped the flap and switched on the flashlight. The tent was empty, except for a note on the ground, instructions of some sort.

He crawled inside, grabbed it, and started reading. Before he got through the first sentence, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. It startled him, but it was also a relief. Another note or videotape from the kidnapper offered no opportunity to negotiate. Jack needed to talk to him. He reached for his vibrating phone and did a gut check, preparing himself for the negotiation of a lifetime. He was about to answer, then stopped.

It was a text message, but it wasn't from the kidnapper.

MONTALVO IS DEAD, it read.

The words hit like ice water. He hit Talk and returned Andie Henning's call by speed dial.

Chapter
60

At 2:45 A. M. Jack was deep into the forest, following the footpath through the dense undergrowth. He couldn't see the river, but he could smell the swamp in the air, the sulfurlike odor of standing water and rotting flora just off the banks. Jack carried a flashlight in his right hand, the kidnapper's note in his left. In the dead of night, it would be easy to get lost in these woods, which explained why the kidnapper had gone to the trouble of drawing a map and leaving it inside the tent. The directions were quite clear - unlike everything else at the moment.

Jack's conversation with Andie had been nothing short of head-splitting. Montalvo was dead, they were sure of it. He'd been dead for years, not weeks or months, a bullet hole just above the left eye orbit. Confusing, yes. But Jack barely had time to think before the cell phone was vibrating again. It was an out-of-area call. He knew it wasn't Andie; they'd agreed not to talk again until after he made the drop. That left only one alternative. He flipped open the phone, the words coming like a reflex.

Did you kill Montalvo?

There was a pause on the other end of the line, but the gravelly tone told Jack that he'd guessed right as to the caller's identity. That's the first intelligent question you've asked in a long time, Swyteck. I guess you finally figured out whose body that was at the Whitmore Nursery. Or do your friends at the FBI deserve all the credit?

All I want to know is who killed him.

Curiosity can be a very dangerous thing.

Was it you?

No. Wasn't me.

Then how did you know where his body was buried?

The silence on the other end of the line seemed insufferable. Because your girlfriend told me, he said, his voice taking on a decided edge. I finally forced it out of her. Would you like to know how?

I don't believe you.

Why else would you have found the ground freshly dug if the bones were seven years old? I had to dig it up, see for myself that Mia was telling the truth before I sent you there.

Jack stopped at a fork in the footpath. He was about to speak, but the caller beat him to it. Did you bring me what she's worth?

I have your money, don't worry. Where's Mia?

Where's the FBI hiding this time?

Jack mustered up his poker voice. They're not here. It's just you and me, like you said. Now where's Mia?

We'll get to that.

No. I told you before, it's a simultaneous exchange or nothing. It's nonnegotiable.

I'll decide what's nonnegotiable, you fuck. Here's the deal. And listen up, because I'm not gonna say this twice.

Chapter
61

The divers were lying low, but they were itching to go.

FBI Agent Peter Crenshaw didn't feel like second in command. There was no denying that Andie Henning was in charge of the Wrong Number Kidnapper task force, but Crenshaw still had twenty more years of experience. A decorated Vietnam veteran and former Navy SEAL, he knew more about scuba diving than anyone else on the team, including the two local search-and-rescue guys who claimed to be cave-diving experts. Granted, he'd never dived the Devil's Ear, and he wasn't so brazen as to say that diving was diving. He knew that caving was different, but he'd done plenty of wrecks with narrow openings and tight spaces, some more than two hundred feet deep, where noon resembled midnight. He'd scoured rivers with churning water so murky that the only option was to feel your way through it. So when Henning gave the standing order that no one was to enter the Devil's Ear without her say-so, he wasn't going to look for reasons to disobey her. But if one came his way, he was determined to use his own better judgment.

There's a light in the Ear, said one of the search-and-rescue divers. His name was Danfield, a lean triathlete with a military-style buzz cut and biceps that showed through his wet suit. Crenshaw had asked him to do a little scouting. He returned in just a few minutes, wet with river water, and he lay flat on his belly beside Crenshaw and the other S&R diver. Dressed in black wet suits and hidden amid the bushes, they were invisible in the night, speaking barely above a whisper.

Are you sure? asked Crenshaw.

I know what I saw, said Danfield. There's a light in there, deep. Somebody's diving.

Couldn't it just be some recreational divers?

You don't lose track of time when you're cave diving. It's after three A. M. Park closes at midnight. You get caught down there after-hours, you lose your cave-diving privileges. That's a death sentence to a caveman.

Crenshaw reached for the encrypted telephone in his bag, but Danfield grabbed his arm and stopped him. Don't.

Crenshaw said, Henning gave an order not to dive till she said so.

She gave the same order last time. Mrs. Thornton ended up dead.

Crenshaw considered it, his gaze drifting toward the flat black water that marked the opening to the cave system. In the soft moonlight, the surface rippled with little rings from the strong undercurrents.

Well? said Danfield.

I'm thinking about it, said Crenshaw.

Don't think too long. I was on the team that pulled Mrs. Thornton's body out of the Ear. That's a performance I don't care to repeat. Every minute up here is a waste of precious time. If our kidnapper is dragging another victim down there to her death, do you want to be the one to tell the family why we sat on our asses and waited?

Again, Crenshaw's gaze carried toward the spring entrance. Perhaps it was a just a fleck of undulating moonlight on the surface, but for an instant he could have sworn that he did see a sweeping flash of light beneath the surface - a diver in the Devil's Ear.

He grasped the telephone.

You're actually going to call her? said Danfield, groaning.

Crenshaw shot him a steely look. Command center needs to know our position at all times, but that doesn't mean I'm requesting permission. We're going in, boys. Whether Henning likes it or not.

Chapter
62

A fine mist began to fall. It gathered on the canopy above, hissing like static in Jack's ears. After several minutes, enough moisture had collected on the higher leaves to create little droplets that fell to the palmetto scrub and wild grape vines below. Soon, the entire forest glistened in the sweep of Jack's flashlight.

Montalvo is dead. Three little words that Jack couldn't shake from his head. All this time, he'd operated on the assumption that he was dealing with Montalvo. It turned out that he knew nothing about the man on the other end of the phone line. Well, almost nothing. According to the kidnapper, it was Mia who had told him where to find Montalvo's body. It was Mia who had killed Montalvo. Jack wasn't ready to accept either of those assertions as true, at least not without some convincing corroboration. But one thing was certain. Whoever he was, the kidnapper believed that Mia was somehow connected to Montalvo's death, or at least to the disposal of his body. Working against that mind-set, Jack had to wonder: Was there really any chance that he would release Mia alive?

The mist stopped, but it had cooled the night air, causing an eerie fog to rise from the surrounding swampland. Jack checked his map one more time, taking care not to smear the ink with his wet hands. The directions took him another hundred yards north around a cluster of wild magnolias. He stopped quickly. One more step would have landed him in the pond. At least it looked like a pond. On closer inspection, however, he could see the water rising to the surface. It was a spring - a small opening to the vast underworld of Florida's aquifer.