Hell and Gone (24 page)

If I could round up everyone who supported me during the writing of
Hell and Gone
and put them in a secret prison somewhere, those walls would contain the coolest people on earth.

First, I would use fabric hoods and plastic wrist-tie cuffs on a group of people I like to call…
the Wardens.

My keeper and minder for thirteen-plus years now has been the lovable yet hardboiled
David Hale Smith.
This book is dedicated to him, not just for his faith in me, and his unflagging support and advice since the turn of the last century, but because he’s the kind of agent who inspires you in the present while keeping an eye on the bigger picture. I love DHS like a brother and without him I couldn’t have found my way through the novel you’re holding in your hands (or on your favorite e-reading device) (or direct mental implant if this is the year 2019).

By his side, smacking their batons against their gloved palms, are the amazing Richard Pine, Lauren Smythe, Danny and Heather Baror, Angela Cheng Caplan, Shauyi Tai, Jessica Tscha, and Kim Yau, as well as the whole (chain) gang at Inkwell Management.

In the brand-new Mulholland Wing of my secret prison you’ll find John Schoenfelder, Miriam Parker, Wes Miller, Michael Pietsch, Luisa Frontino, Theresa Giacopasi, Betsy Uhrig, Barbara Clark, Christine Valentine, and the rest of the stellar Little, Brown team. Some may question the wisdom of incarcerating my publishers, but you have to understand: they trapped me in a karaoke prison during BookExpo America 2011 and refused to let me out until I did my drunken Jim Morrison impression. It wasn’t pretty; they deserve the sentence they’ve received.

In an adjoining office in the control tower is Ruth Tross and the amazing Mulholland UK team. Their office has the wet bar, and they know
exactly
why. Next door you’ll find Kristof Kurz, Frank Dabrock, and the rest of the team at Heyne in Germany.

My official prison doc, and the man who keeps me from making serious medical blunders in all of my books, is the legendary Lou Boxer. He’s the most
noir
guy in all of Greater Philadelphia, yet an absolute sweetheart. Explain
that
one…

I would also forcibly (yet lovingly) detain certain people I like to call
the Prisoners
—those unfortunate souls doomed to a life sentence of breaking rocks in the tough-yet-fertile fields of publishing. This list includes the lifers and the new fish (and I’ll let you sort out who’s who):

Megan Abbott, Cameron Ashley, Janelle Asselin, Brian Azzarello, Jed Ayres, Josh Bazell, Eric Beetner, Stephen Blackmoore, Juliet Blackwell, Linda Brown, Ed Brubaker, Aldo Calcagno, Jon Cavalier, Sarah Cavalier, Stephanie “Mos Stef” Crawford, Scott and Sandi Cupp, Warren Ellis, Peter Farris, Erin Faye, Ed Fee, Joshua Hale Fialkov, James Frey, Joe Gangemi, Sara Gran, Allan “Sunshine” Guthrie, Charlaine Harris, Charlie Huston, Tania Hutchison, John Jordan, McKenna Jordan, Ruth Jordan (mystery nerd trivia: only
two
of the previous three Jordans are related!), Vince Keenan, Anne Kimbol, Katie Kubert, Ellen Clair Lamb, Terrill Lankford, Joe Lansdale, Simon Le Bon, Paul Leyden, Laura Lippman, Sophie Littlefield, Elizabeth-Amber Love, Mike MacLean, Mike Marts, David Macho, Patrick Millikin, Scott Montgomery, Lauren O’Brien, Jon Page, Barbara Peters, Ed and Kate Pettit, Keith Rawson, David Ready, Marc Resnick, Janet Rudolph, Jonathan Santlofer, David Schow, Joe Schreiber, Brett Simon, Jason Starr, Evelyn Taylor, Mark Ward, Dave “Vigoda” White, Elizabeth A. White.

I’m sure I’ve forgotten a ton of potential inmates here; my apologies in advance, and please go easy on me during my sentencing hearing.

Living nearby, in a private residence near the secret prison—all Alcatraz-style, natch—is my family: Meredith, Parker, and Sarah, who are incredibly understanding when I disappear into the prison of my own making (in the basement office of our northeast Philadelphia home) for long stretches of time.

And finally, a word of thanks to my former high school English teacher James Roach, who showed us
Cool Hand Luke
during a series of classes one week. Wish you’d stop bein’ so good to me, cap’n…

Duane Swierczynski is the author of several crime thrillers, including
Fun and Games,
Book One of the Hardie Trilogy. He’s written for Marvel Comics’s Punisher MAX, Cable, Deadpool, Immortal Iron Fist, Werewolf by Night, and Black Widow series, and has collaborated with
CSI
creator Anthony E. Zuiker on the bestselling Level 26 series of “digi-novels.” He lives in the City of Brotherly Love with his wife, son, and daughter. Visit him at
www.duaneswierczynski.com
or
twitter.com/swierczy
.

Philadelphia—Now

Of all the shocks Kendra Hardie had endured over the past few hours—the dropped call from her son, the chilling messages on the alarm keypad, the thudding footfalls on the roof, the wrenching sounds in the very guts of her house, the missing gun, and the awful realization of how quickly her situation had become hopeless—none of that compared to the shock of hearing that voice on the other end of the phone line:

“It’s me.”

Kendra’s mind froze. There was a moment of temporal dislocation, distant memory colliding with the present.

Me.

Could that really be…you?

It
sounds
like you, but…

No.

Can’t be you.

But then how do I know, deep in my soul, that it is you?

“Are you there? Listen to me, Kendra, I know this is going to sound crazy, but you have to listen to me. You and the boy are in serious danger. You need to get out of the house now and just start driving. Drive
anywhere.
Don’t tell me where, because they’re definitely listening, but just go, go as fast as you fucking can. I’ll find you guys when it’s safe.”

Kendra swallowed hard, looked at the face of the satellite receiver. 3:13 a.m. A little more than four hours since she had stepped into her own home and into a living nightmare. Eighteen hours since she had last seen her son. And almost eight years since she’d last heard her ex-husband’s voice. Yet there it was on the line, at the very nexus of the nightmare.

“Kendra? Are you there? Can you hear me?”

“I’m here, Charlie. But I can’t leave.”

“You have to leave, Kendra, please just trust me on this…”

“I can’t leave because they’ve already called and told me I
can’t
leave.”

Earlier in the evening Kendra had been out with a friend downtown, at a Cuban restaurant on Second Street in Old City, but found that she wasn’t really into the food, didn’t want to finish her mojito, and was tired of hearing about her friend’s first-world problems, such as problems with interior decorators and the headache of maintaining three vacation homes on the Delaware shore. Kendra excused herself and just…
left.
Paid for half of the tab and split, handed the valet her stub, and drove back to the northern suburbs, leaving poor Derek to complain to somebody else about having too much money. Maybe one of the Cuban-exile waiters would give a shit.

It had been that kind of listless, annoyance-filled week, and Kendra now felt foolish for thinking that a night of moderate drinking and inane conversation could turn that around.

During the drive home her son, CJ, had called. He told her he was just calling to check in—which was just about as unusual as the president of the United States dropping you an e-mail just to see how everything was going. CJ didn’t check in,
ever.
As CJ grew to manhood, he became increasingly like his father, with the delightful ability to cut off all emotional circuitry with the flick of an invisible switch. All the abuse her son had been dishing out over the years had hardened her into exactly the kind of mother she’d vowed never to become. The kind of mother who said things like,

“Cut the shit, CJ. What happened?”

“Nothing, Mom. I just…”

Mom.
Oooh, that was another red flag. CJ hadn’t called her Mom in…months? CJ barely spoke to her, and when he did, it was little more than a grunt.

A tiny ball of worry had begun to form in Kendra’s stomach. Was he hurt? Was he calling from a hospital or a police station? Her body tensed, and she prepared to change direction and gun the accelerator.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at home, everything’s fine. Look, Mom, I know this is going to sound weird, but…what did you do with Dad’s old stuff?”

“What? Why are you asking me about that?”

First “Mom,” now…
Dad?
For the past seven years CJ hadn’t referred to his father as anything but “asshole” or “cocksucker” or “psycho.” Before Kendra had a chance to hear CJ’s answer, the phone beeped and went dead. NO SERVICE.

Kendra continued in the same direction but gunned the accelerator just the same, all the way up the Schuylkill Expressway, then through the endless traffic lights up Broad Street, and finally along the hills and curves of Old York Road out to the fringes of Abington Township. Home. She didn’t bother pulling the car into the garage, leaving it parked out on the street. Something in CJ’s voice…no,
everything
about CJ’s voice was completely wrong. Dad’s old stuff? What was that about? Why did he suddenly want to see the few possessions his father had left behind? The thought that CJ might be drinking again crossed Kendra’s mind, but his voice wasn’t slurred. If anything, it was completely clear and focused, in stark contrast to the moody grunts she usually received.

And whenever CJ did go on a binge, his heart filled with raw hate for his father, not fuzzy nostalgia.

“CJ?”

The alarm unit on the wall to the left of the door beeped insistently until Kendra keyed in the code. She closed the door behind her, locked it, then reengaged the system. It beeped again. All set.

“CJ, answer me!”

And then began the nightmare.

No CJ, not anywhere. No trace of him in his room, no telltale glasses or dishes in the sink. The house was
exactly
as Kendra had left it when she left for Old City earlier in the evening. Had CJ even called from home? The call had come from his cell, so he could be anywhere right now.

Not knowing what else to do, Kendra tried him again on her phone, but still—NO SERVICE. What was that about? She could understand a dropped call when speeding down the Schuylkill, as if a guardian angel had tweaked the signal to prevent you from sparking a twelve-car pileup on the most dangerous road in Philadelphia. But in her own home?

Maybe she could get a better signal outside. Kendra went back to the front door and keyed in the code. Two digits in, however, her finger stopped and hung in midair before the 6 key.

The digital readout, which usually delivered straightforward messages such as SYSTEM ENGAGED or PLEASE ENTER ACCESS CODE, now told her something else:

“The fuck?” Kendra muttered, then lowered her finger for a second before blinking hard and stabbing the 6 button anyway, followed by the 2. Which should have disengaged the system. This time, however, there was no reassuring beep. There was nothing at all, except:

Then:

And Kendra, much to her own disgust, did exactly as she was told, staying perfectly still and silent…

 …for about two seconds before realizing
Fuck this
and grabbing the handle of her front door. She twisted the knob, pulled. The door didn’t move, as if it had been cemented in place. What? She hadn’t engaged the deadbolts when she’d come in just a minute ago…

The phone in her hand buzzed to life. There was SERVICE, suddenly. The name on the display: INCOMING CALL / CJ.

Oh, thank God. She thumbed the accept button, expecting to hear her son’s voice, maybe even hoping he’d call her
Mom
again.

But instead, it had been someone else.

Now, four agonizing hours later, during which Kendra had heard the sounds of her own house being turned against her…she was listening to the voice of her ex-husband—an accused murderer long thought to be dead. And he had the audacity to be grilling her!

“Who told you that? Who told you you were dead?”

“They called me and said if I left the house I was dead.”

“
Fuck.
Did you call the police? Anyone at all?”

“They told me not to call anyone or do anything else except wait.”

“Wait for what?”

There was a burst of static on the line, and then another voice came on. The one who’d called four hours earlier, from CJ’s phone.

The evil icy-voiced bitch queen who had her son, and who claimed to have the house surrounded.

“Hey, Charlie! It’s your old pal Mann here. So good to hear your voice after all this time. Well, that magical day has finally arrived. In about thirty seconds we’re going to kill the phones, and the power, and everything else in your wife’s house. We’ve got her surrounded; I know every square inch of every house in a five-block radius. You of all people know how thorough we are.”

Charlie ignored the other voice.

“Kendra, where’s the boy?”

“Shhhh now, Charlie. It’s rude to interrupt. You’re wasting precious seconds. I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me that if I touch one hair on your family’s head, you’ll rip me apart one limb at a time…or maybe some other colorful metaphor? Well, you know, that’s just not gonna happen. Because you lost this one, Chuck. There’s not going to be any cavalry rushing in, no last-minute saves, no magic escapes. And you know what’s going to happen next?”

What
should
have been going through Kendra’s mind at this moment was something along the lines of:

Charlie, where the hell have you been and why have you surfaced now? The last time we spoke it was a stupid and petty conversation about a late credit card bill, and I think the last word I spoke to you before disconnecting was
whatever.

Or maybe:

Charlie, why didn’t you call me before tonight? Do you how many late nights I stared at the ceiling, trying to actually physically will you to call me? Not to change anything or explain anything, but to just to tell me what happened? Do you know how hard the
not knowing
was? How much it consumed me over the years, digging in deep, way past the regret and guilt and into the very core of me?

But instead Kendra thought:

Goddamn you, Charlie.

Goddamn you for doing this to us.

“What’s going to happen next is,” the ice bitch queen continued, “your family’s going to die. And there’s not a fucking thing you can do to stop me.”

If Kendra had any doubts about the voice on the other end of the line belonging to her husband, they vanished when he spoke again. Because his words were infused with a rock-hard defiance that had once been familiar to her, over a decade ago.

Charlie Hardie told the ice bitch queen,

“I can stop you.”