Paying The Piper (21 page)

The sight inside the cellar took Jones’s breath away. His flashlight beam lit up Annabel stretched out on a cot, her face a bruised and swollen mess. He clambered down the ladder and swept the cellar with his flashlight. His beam failed to pick out the Fleetwood boys. The Piper had to be storing them elsewhere.

Jones knelt over Annabel. “It’s okay. I’m here to help you. It’s okay.”

She writhed on the cot. “Where’s Brian? I need Brian.”

Her words came out slurred. She was heavily medicated. Not a surprise. He examined her broken nose. She’d be in a world of hurt without the drugs. He wasn’t about to attempt any first aid. Just get out and get her somewhere safe. Sheils could do the rest.

The Piper had cuffed her wrists and ankles to the cot. There was enough slack for her to move, but the hard steel had cut into her flesh. He needed a bolt cutter for the cuffs, but not the cot. It wouldn’t take much to cut through the aluminum frame.

“Where are Sammy and Peter? Have you seen them?”

“No. I asked about them. Brian didn’t show me.” A lazy smile leaked across her face. “There’s Brian.”

Jones’s guts turned to water. He’d fallen for a rookie trick. The bastard had driven around the block to catch him with his hand in the cookie jar. Damn, he had gotten too old. Now the Piper was behind him. There was only one thing left to do.

He spun around. Brian Givens, the
Piper, stood on the ladder with a pistol pointed at his chest. Jones reached for his revolver in his windbreaker pocket, but lost his balance on the soft dirt. He clipped the cot and fell on his back, flailing for his gun. He snatched the butt and yanked at the revolver, but the weapon snagged on his pocket. He hit the dirt hard and the .38 bounced from his pocket and stopped just out reach of his outstretched arm.

The Piper had him, dead bang. He didn’t move a muscle.

“Who are you?” Givens asked.

“Walter Jones.” Jones eyed his revolver, just two inches from his grasp.

“Don’t make me shoot you,” Givens said. “That thirty-eight might as well be in Mexico for all the good it’s going to do you.”

“Where are Sammy and Peter Fleetwood?”

“I’m the one with the gun. I ask the questions.”

Jones eyed his gun again.

Givens fired a shot into the dirt just short of the .38. The gun boomed in the cellar confines. The noise left Jones’s ears ringing. Annabel wailed and writhed on the cot.

“Forget the gun and answer my questions. Now, who are you working for?”

“I don’t work for anyone.”

Givens shot Jones in the thigh. Pain knifed through his body. He clutched at his leg, cursing.

“My head,” Annabel moaned. “Brian, you didn’t have to shoot him.”

“Sorry. Had to. He’s not a friend,” Givens said. “Jones, I don’t have time to play games. Tell me who you’re working for.”

“Tom Sheils.”

“You’re not FBI.”

“I’m retired. I’m working a separate line of inquiry.”

The Piper climbed down the remaining ladder rungs. “Does anyone know you’re here?”

This was a lose-lose question. Answer
yes, he was dead. Answer no, he was dead. It didn’t matter. His thoughts turned to Lucy. It was going to be hell for her living without him. She called his retirement their golden years. Golden years were meant to last longer.

“No one knows I’m here. I haven’t had the chance to call in.”

“That’s good.”

“Where are the boys?” He prayed the kids weren’t dead and already buried deep in the paddock someplace.

Givens smiled. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

S
cott felt the way he did when he’d run track back in
school. Those final minutes before competitors were called to the starting blocks were the worst. But the moment the starter pistol fired, adrenaline took over. He prayed that would happen tonight when the Piper called.

The world centered on the kitchen. Two million dollars again sat on his kitchen table. It was surreal to see that much cash in his home. Two million bought dreams with plenty to spare. Tonight, it might not be enough to save his children.

Brannon and Sheils slotted bound stacks of hundreds into a large backpack to ensure an even load. Sheils had sprung for a top-of-the-line pack with padded shoulder straps and a backrest. If the Piper sent Scott on a long chase, that two million in hundreds would weigh every ounce of forty-four pounds. Brannon checked the pack’s weight and zippered it up.

“Try it on for size,” Sheils said.

Scott slipped the pack on. It failed to knock him off his feet, but it was a dense weight. He adjusted the straps and settled into the shape and feel of the cash. “It’s fine.”

He looked at Jane. As nervous as he felt, he squeezed out a smile for her, and she sent one back.

Rooker stepped into the
kitchen. He’d asked to be here for the ransom drop. No one had objected. He had as big a stake in all this as anyone. It was his money again. He deserved to be here when they caught the Piper. He gave Jane a hug.

Scott slipped the backpack off, and Brannon set it on the table.

“Will you reconsider?” Sheils asked Scott.

“Reconsider what?” Rooker asked.

“I’m playing it straight,” Scott said. “No undercover cars tailing me. No monitoring devices. No dye packs.”

“Why?” Rooker demanded.

This had been the crux of an argument that had raged all day. Sheils wanted Scott to employ every form of human and electronic surveillance available. Sheils only backed down when Scott threatened to cut the FBI out. He knew Scott would go his own way if cornered.

“The Piper isn’t going to take any more shit from us,” Scott said. “He isn’t stupid. He’ll know if I’m followed or wired up. As soon as he does, he’ll kill Sammy and Peter.”

Jane didn’t flinch at his stark portrayal. She was desensitized to it all. So was he. They would feel the pain and anguish if the worst happened, but they were numb to the realities of the if-then scenarios.

“I won’t take that risk with our sons.”

“Scott, think about this. He could get away again. Do you want that?” Rooker asked.

He’d thought about nothing else. The Piper wouldn’t get away again. He wouldn’t let him. Plain and simple. He would stop the Piper tonight by whatever means it took.

“I know the risks, Charles. If you’re worried about your money, I will repay it.”

Jane had dug out his life insurance policy this afternoon. There was a million of Rooker’s money right there if he died tonight.

Rooker stormed across the kitchen and thumped
the table. “I don’t care about the money. I care about two things—this family and nailing the Piper.”

“I’m sorry,” Scott said.

“Damn right you are.”

“I’m still doing this my way.”

“His way. Not yours.”

Scott shrugged. “His way, then.”

Rooker turned to Jane. “Are you going to let him do this?”

“Yes.”

He threw his hands in the air. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You guys are crazy.”

“He won’t be totally alone,” Sheils said. “We’ll have a helicopter in the air tracking him.”

Scott had allowed this minor concession. From up there, they could see everything they wanted, but they’d be too far away to prevent anything from happening.

“At least that’s something,” Rooker said, his cool returning, “but we’re still dancing to this maniac’s tune.”

No one disagreed with him.

The Piper called at seven minutes to ten.

“Here are your instructions. Follow them, and everything will work out fine. Ignore them, and you know what will happen. Understand?” The Piper kept his tone clipped, to the point of sounding aggressive. His playfully cruel banter was absent.

“Yes. I understand.”

“Good. Drive to the cable car terminal at Powell and Market. Go to the pay phones there. One phone will be ringing. You have twenty minutes. If I get a whiff of FBI, I’ll kill the boys.”

Scott looked over at Sheils. “There won’t be any interference from the FBI. You have my word.”

Sheils frowned.

“Your word means nothing. Just
do as I say.”

The line went dead.

Scott put down the phone. Jane came over and hugged him.

“Bring them back. You hear?”

He felt her tears against his face.

“I will,” he said and released her.

Rooker shook his head. “Good luck, Scott.”

Sheils followed Scott to his Honda and held the door open for him. Scott slung the two-million-dollar backpack on the passenger seat and got behind the wheel.

“I can put a detail on you. He would never spot them.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I think we both knew this would come down to a showdown between him and me. Just keep your helicopter in the air. When he’s got the money and I’ve got Sammy and Peter, he’s all yours.”

Sheils nodded and shut Scott’s car door. “Look after yourself. He’s looking for an excuse to take it out on those boys of yours. Don’t give him a reason.”

“I won’t.”

Scott started the Honda and reversed out onto the street. Twenty minutes from his house to the cable car terminus was tight. He could do it if he ran a couple of lights.

He felt like a first-time driver at the wheel. He gripped the wheel too tightly and his feet were clumsy on the pedals.

“Get a grip,” he told himself.

He had to be sharper than this. The Piper was calling the shots and would be at least one step ahead of him. If he didn’t pull it together, the Piper would screw him again and his kids might die.

With his thoughts on the Piper, his driving improved and he reached the cable car terminus. He dumped the Honda on Ellis. He yanked the keys out of the ignition, dragged the pack out with him, and slammed the door, not bothering to lock it.

The cable cars had long since stopped running
for the day. The drive system’s incessant grinding and cable car’s bell ringing was absent. The sound of a pay phone ringing half a block away traveled on the air with ease.

Scott sprinted toward the phone while pulling on the backpack.

He weaved in and out of the young couples on their way to another nightspot. They looked at him like he was a maniac.

His adrenaline kicked in. He covered the ground in seconds, eating into the distance between him and the phone.

It was still time enough for the ringing phone to catch someone’s attention. A young black kid split from his two buddies to answer the phone.

“Leave it,” Scott bellowed.

“Fuck you, bitch,” the kid snarled.

Scott snatched up the phone before the kid could grab it. The kid backed off but tossed insults Scott’s way.

“I’m here.”

“You took your time,” the Piper said. “Two more rings, and I would have hung up. You’ve got to be quicker.”

“What now?”

“There’s a cell phone taped to the underside of the
SF Weekly
kiosk behind you. Get it and get on BART. Get off at Glen Park. Hurry. There’s a Millbrae-bound train at ten twenty-five. Be on it.”

Scott hung up. He flipped over the
SF Weekly
kiosk, tore off a cell phone taped to the underside of the steel box, and raced down into the Powell Street BART station.

Scott waited on the platform, his adrenaline hurtling through his system. Sweat poured off him. The sprint for the phone had been the perfect shock to his system. He was ready for this.

He powered up the phone the Piper had left him. The display revealed a picture of Sammy and Peter shoved together, their hands and wrists bound. They looked terrified. Anger ripped through him.

“Bastard,” he growled under his
breath.

He expected a call, but none came. Couldn’t come. No signal made it through to the subterranean train. It was a smart move on the Piper’s part. He’d cut Scott off from the world. Scott couldn’t call out, and no one could call in. He was alone. Just the way the Piper wanted him.

The mood in the house was tense but restrained. Scott’s insistence that the FBI keep their distance had left them impotent. The helicopter was the only thing keeping them in the game. Everyone sat clustered around Sheils’s walkie-talkie, listening to the pilot and observer’s commentary. The situation reminded Sheils of a space movie where mission control was sitting around with their thumbs up their butts when disaster hit. His Houston-we-have-a-problem was about to strike.

“Fleetwood is out of his car,” the helicopter observer said.

“Where?” Sheils asked.

“Ellis at Powell. He’s running toward the cable car terminus. Looks as if something’s happening.”

“What?”

“He’s answered a pay phone.”

The Piper was going old-school. He was going to have Scott run from pay phone to pay phone to see if he was being tailed. “Which one?”

“Bank of four. Second from the left if you’re facing the phones.”

Sheils said to Dunham, “Get SFPD down there. I want that phone secured. Then I want techs all over it. They might get something off it.”

Dunham yanked his cell phone out and punched in a number. He excused himself from the living room to make the call.

“Something’s happening,” the observer said.

“What?” Sheils said.

“Fleetwood just tipped over a newspaper kiosk
and tore something off the bottom. It’s small. Could be a cell phone. Yeah, I think it’s a cell.”

Jane groaned. Rooker put an arm around her shoulder and told her it was okay.

“What’s happening?”

“Fleetwood’s just gone into the BART station.”

Putting Scott on BART was the worst thing that could happen, since they had no ground surveillance teams. Most of San Francisco’s BART line was subterranean, which meant they had no way of knowing which train he was on or which direction he was heading.

“Shit,” Brannon said. “We’ve lost him now.”

“Not yet, we haven’t,” Sheils said. “Someone pull up a BART map. I want to know which trains are leaving and when and where BART hits daylights after Powell.”

“Depends which way he’s heading,” Brannon said. “If he’s going to the East Bay, it’s West Oakland; to the South Bay, it’s the Oakland Coliseum; and if it’s SFO, he’ll ride it all the way to Millbrae.”

The gravity of Brannon’s remark hit everyone in the room at once. What if the Piper was at San Francisco International with the kids? If Scott handed the Piper the money there, then the bastard was on the next flight to Rio.

“The next train arriving at Powell is headed to Millbrae,” Guerra called out from her laptop.

“He’s going to skip,” Brannon said.

Sheils didn’t think so. It was too obvious. The Piper was anything but obvious. Besides, he was far from finished with Scott. He had plenty of blade twisting left to do.

“What do you want us to do?” the helicopter observer asked.

“Circle,” Sheils said. “Make sure Fleetwood doesn’t go in and come back out again.”

“What are you going to do?” Jane asked Sheils.

Panic was sinking its teeth into her, but
Sheils had expected a rough ride. The BART system was small and self-contained, and that would work to his advantage. There weren’t a lot of travel options. Even if it took them ten minutes to establish Scott’s location, the chopper was capable of catching him in minutes.

“Brannon, get a hold of BART police. Tell their guys to check the platforms for Scott. I want a visual. They aren’t to make contact. No heroics.”

Brannon got on the phone.

“Guerra, tell the TSA and security at SFO and Oakland International to be on the lookout for Scott and a guy with two boys matching Sammy and Peter’s descriptions.”

“Yes, sir,” Guerra said.

That was it. There was nothing left to do until they caught a break. Sheils stood up and moved away from his radio.

Jane moved in, with Rooker behind her.

“Scott’s on his own, isn’t he?” Her tone was accusatory.