Riptide (27 page)

“But you're different, Rebecca. I have you now and I will have your father, also. I will kill that bloody murderer.” She heard the rage now in his voice, low and bubbling, and it would build and build. She heard his breathing, harsh but more controlled now, and he said finally, “I want you to get in your car and drive to the gym on Night Shade Alley. Do it now, Rebecca. That little boy is depending on you.”

“Wait! What do I do when I get there?”

“You'll know what to do. I've missed you. You have a lovely body. I touched you with my hands, ran my tongue all over you. Did you know I left that toilet bolt on that woman's bed at NYU Hospital? It was for you, Rebecca, so that you would know that I was all over you, looking at you, feeling you, rubbing you. You hoped when you unscrewed that bolt that you could smash it in my eye, didn't you?”

She was shaking with fear and rage, each so powerful alone, but mixed together they quaked through her, making her light-headed.

“You're an old man,” she said. “You're a filthy old man. The thought of you even near me makes me want to vomit.”

He laughed, a deep laugh that was terrifying. “I'll see you very soon now, Rebecca. And then I'll have a surprise for you. Never forget, this is my game and you will always play by my rules.”

He hung up. She knew in her gut that wherever he was hiding this time, there wouldn't have been any way to trace the call, no matter how sophisticated the equipment. All the others knew it, too.

She depressed the button. They'd heard everything. They knew exactly what she knew now.

She didn't take anything with her, except her Coonan. When she got into the Toyota, she again pressed the small button, then started the car. “I'm leaving for the gym now.”

Her precious mother, she thought. She'd escaped him by falling into the coma. He'd been in the hospital, asking about her. It was too much, just too much.

She drove to Klondike's Gym in just over eight minutes. It sat right at the very end of Night Shade Alley, a big concrete parking lot in front, trees crowding in all around the rest of the two-story building. There were windows all across the front, lights filling all of them. There were at least two dozen cars in the big concrete lot. She'd been here once with Tyler. That had been in the middle of the day. Not nearly the number of cars there then. Perhaps since it was so hot during the day, the Mainers waited until the evening cool to work out. She drove in, picked a place that had no cars near it, turned off the engine, and sat there. Five minutes passed. Nothing. No sign of Krimakov, no sign of anyone at all.

She depressed the button on the wristband. “I don't see him. I don't see anything out of the ordinary. There are lots of people here.”

Everyone should be here by now. They were ready. They all wanted Krimakov. They would do absolutely nothing until they had Krimakov. Everyone had agreed on that.

There was nothing to worry about. “I'm going in now.” She got out of the car and walked into the gym. There was
a bright-faced young man at the counter, looking like he'd just worked out hard. His clothes were sweated through. “Hi,” he said, and looked at her.

She wasn't wearing workout clothes.

She smiled. “I was here once before and I rented a locker in the women's locker room. My clothes are there. I need to pick them up.”

“I know you. You've been on TV, on every channel.”

“Yes. May I please come in now?”

“That'll be ten dollars. What are you doing here?”

She opened her wallet and pulled out a twenty. “I'm here to pick up my workout clothes.” He didn't even look up. She watched him for what seemed like forever as he got her a ten in change. He pressed a buzzer and she went through the turnstile.

The room was large, filled with machines and free weights and mirrors. The lights were very bright, nearly blinding. A radio played loud rock, booming out from the overhead speakers. There were lots of young people here tonight, thus the raucous music. There were at least thirty people throughout the big room. Upstairs were all the aerobic machines. She heard talk, music, groans, the harsh movement of the machines, nothing else.

What was she to do?

She walked back to the women's locker room. There were three women inside, in various stages of undress. No one paid her any attention. Nothing there.

She walked out of the dressing room, and this time she walked slowly, roaming through the big room, looking at all the men. Many of them were young, but there were some older ones as well, all of them different one from the other—fat, thin, in shape, paunchy. So many different sorts of men, all there on this night, working away. Not one of them approached her.

What to do?

A couple of young guys were horsing around, doing fake hits, laughing, insulting each other. One of them accidentally backed into the arm of an old chest machine. The
big weighted arms weren't clicked in to a setting. When the young guy hit it, it swung out and hit her squarely on her upper right arm. She stumbled into a big Nautilus machine and lost her balance. She went down.

“Oh shit. I'm sorry. You all right?”

He was helping her up, rubbing her shoulder, her arm, looking at her now with a young male's natural sexual interest. “Hey, talk to me. You okay?”

“Yes, I'm fine, don't worry.”

“I haven't seen you here before. You new in town?”

“Yes, sort of.”

He was lightly touching her arm now, as if assuring himself that she was okay, and she tried to smile at him, assure him that she was just fine. The other young man came up on the other side, vying with the first for her attention.

“Hey, I'm Steve. Would you like to go have a drink with me? I figure I owe you since I knocked you on your butt.”

“Or maybe you'd like to go with both of us? I'm Troy.”

“No, thank you, guys. I absolve you of all guilt. I have to leave now.”

She finally managed to get away from them. She turned once and saw them looking after her, smiling, waving, looking really pleased with themselves now that she'd looked back at them.

Neither of them was more than twenty-five, she thought. Well-built boys. She was twenty-seven. She felt ancient.

Finally, because she couldn't think of anything else to do, she went through the turnstile at the front of the gym. The young guy who'd let her in wasn't there. No one was there. She felt a ripple of alarm. Where had the kid gone? Maybe a shower. Yeah, that was it. He'd really been sweating.

She thought she saw a shadow just outside the front door. It was one of the good guys, she thought, it had to be.

Where was Krimakov? He'd said she'd know what to do. He was wrong.

She walked slowly back to the Toyota. The lights
weren't bright in this part of the lot and that was why she'd elected to park here. She hadn't wanted to park close by other cars, hadn't wanted to take the risk of Krimakov hurting anyone else. Now she wished she hadn't because no one seemed to be about.

She reached out her hand to the door handle. Suddenly, without warning, she felt a sharp sting in the back of her left shoulder. She gasped, whirled around, but there was nothing, no one. Just the dim light from the lights overhead. No movement. Nothing. She felt herself slipping. That was odd—she was falling, but slowly, just sort of sliding down against the door of her car.

“
N
o,” she said into her wristband. “Nobody move. I'm all right. I don't see him. Don't move. Something struck me in the left shoulder, but I'm okay. Stay where you are until he comes out.”

She sat on the concrete, the unforgiving hard roughness against her bare legs. She put her head back, listened to her heart pounding, did nothing, unable to do anything. She wanted to cry out but she didn't, she couldn't, Sam's life was at stake, and if she did cry out, she knew Adam would come running. She couldn't allow that. What had he done to her? What kind of drug had he shot into her back? Had he killed her? Would she die here in the concrete parking lot at the gym?

Now she felt only light pain in her shoulder. She pressed back against the door and felt something sharp dig into her flesh. Something was sticking out of her shoulder. She said quietly, because she didn't know if Krimakov was near, “No, don't move. He shot me with something, and now I can feel some sort of dart sticking out of my back. Don't move. I'm all right. There's still no sign of Krimakov.” She reached both arms back and managed to grip
the narrow shaft. What was going on here? Slowly, because it seemed the only thing to do, she pulled on the shaft. It slipped right out, sliding easily through her flesh, not deep at all, just barely piercing the skin. She leaned over, suddenly light-headed. She believed she would faint but she didn't. “I'm all right. Stay hidden. It's some kind of small dart. Just a moment.”

She looked at the shaft she'd pulled out of her shoulder. There was something rolled tightly around it. Paper. She pulled it off, unrolled it. Her fingers were clumsy, slow.

She was still alone, still sitting by her car. No one had come out of the gym.

She managed to make out the black printing on the unrolled piece of paper in the dim light. It was in all caps:

GO HOME. YOU'LL FIND THE BOY.

YOUR BOYFRIEND

“It says that Sam's at home. Nothing more. He signed it ‘Your Boyfriend.'”

What was going on here? She didn't understand, and doubted that any of the others did, either. She wanted to drive like a bat out of hell to get back to Jacob Marley's house, to find Sam, but she couldn't, she was too dizzy. Waves of light-headedness came over her at odd moments. She drove home slowly, watching for other cars, headlights behind her. But nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She knew they had to stay low. No one wanted to risk Sam's life by showing themselves too soon.

She was clearheaded by the time she reached Jacob Marley's house. She turned off the engine, sat there a minute, staring at the house. Everything was silent. The sliver of moon shone nearly directly overhead now.

There were lights on only downstairs. She remembered she hadn't even gone upstairs, hadn't wanted to, and then the phone had rung.

Had Sam been locked in her closet upstairs all this time where Krimakov had hidden himself waiting for her to get into bed?

She was into the house in under three seconds, racing up the stairs, picturing Sam tied up, stuffed in the back of her closet, perhaps unconscious, perhaps even dead. She yelled at the wristband, “Is everyone still there? Oh God, of course you are! I think you'd better still stay out of sight. I don't know what he's up to. You don't, either. Stay hidden. I'll find Sam if he's here.”

She dashed into her bedroom and switched on the light. The room was still, stuffy, closed up for too long. She pulled open the closet door. No Sam. She knew they could hear her footsteps pounding up the stairs, hear her harsh breathing, hear her curse when she didn't find Sam.

She went into every room, opened every closet, searched every bathroom on the second floor.

“No Sam yet. I'm looking.”

She called out to him again and again until she was nearly hoarse.

She was in the kitchen, pacing, when she saw the door to the basement. Oh, Jesus, she thought, and pulled it open. She flipped on the single light switch. The naked hundred-watt bulb flickered, then strengthened.

“Sam!”

He was sitting on the concrete floor, propped against a wall, bound hand and foot, a gag in his mouth. His eyes were wide, dilated with terror. How long had the bastard left him sitting in the dark?

“Sam!” She was on her knees next to him, working the gag loose. “It's all right, honey. I'll have you loose in just another second.” She got the gag off him. “You okay?”

“Becca?”

A thin little voice, barely there, and she nearly wept. “It's all right,” she said again. “Let me get you untied, then we'll go upstairs and I'll make you some hot chocolate and wrap you up in a real warm blanket.”

He didn't say anything more, not that she expected him
to. She got his ankles and wrists untied and lifted him in her arms. When she got back into the kitchen, she sat down with him and began rubbing the feeling back into his wrists and ankles. “It will be all right now, Sam. Do you hurt anywhere else?”

He shook his head. Then he said, “I was scared, Becca, real scared.”

“I know, baby, I know. But you're with me now. I'm not going to let you out of my sight.” She carried him into the living room and wrapped him in an afghan. Then she went back to the kitchen, sat him down in a chair, the blanket firmly wrapped around him. “Now some hot chocolate. You hungry, Sam?”

He shook his head. “I want Rachel. My tummy feels weird. She knows what to do.”

“Mine would, too, if I'd been through what you have. I'll tell your dad that you want Rachel.” While the water heated, she poured the cocoa mix into a cup. Then she held Sam close again, telling him how brave he was, how everything was all right now, how she would call his father. While Sam was drinking the chocolate, Becca, not taking her eyes off him, pulled out her cell phone and called Tyler. “I've got him. He's safe.”

“Thank God. Where are you?”

“At home. Krimakov put him in the basement. He's all right, Tyler.”

“I'll be right there.”

Obviously they'd all heard her but had waited to see if Krimakov was going to show himself. But no longer. Sam was safe. Still, there wasn't a sign of Krimakov. She'd forgotten to tell Tyler to get Rachel.

Adam came through the back door like an avenging angel. Then he saw Sam's white face, saw that the little kid was all wrapped up in a pale-green afghan. He wanted to kill Krimakov with his bare hands.

He slowed down, pinned a big smile on his face. He came down on his haunches beside him. “Hi, Sam. You're the youngest hero I've ever known.”

Sam stared at him for a minute, then he smiled, a really big smile. “Really?”

Adam was surprised to hear even that one short word out of him. “Really. The youngest. Boy, am I impressed. Do you think you could tell Becca and me what happened?”

Tyler came running through the front door. He stopped cold when he saw the three of them, but his eyes were on Becca first, then slowly he looked at his son.

He didn't say another word, just scooped up Sam in his arms and sat down with him. He rocked him back and forth. Becca thought the contact was more for Tyler than to comfort his son. Finally, he raised his head and said quietly, “Tell me what happened.”

Becca told him, short, stripped sentences, no emotion in them, stark facts, no details.

“But why did this Krimakov take Sam when all he did was get you here then tell you he was here in the house?”

“I don't know. Adam, did any of you see him? Did you see anything at all?”

Adam shook his head. “We've been looking, behind every damned tree.”

She wished then that she hadn't reminded Tyler that Adam was here. His eyes narrowed, he hugged Sam more tightly to him. “You bastard, this is all your fault.”

“Get a grip, McBride. Your son is all right. Now, if you don't mind, let's see if Sam can tell us anything about the guy who took him. You know it's important. You don't want Krimakov to get Becca again, do you?”

Tyler said, “Sam rarely says anything, you know that.”

“He had a thick sock over his head. I never saw him. He gave me potato chips to eat. I was real hungry, but he told me to be quiet, that Becca would come for me soon enough.”

Everyone stared at Sam. He looked quite pleased with himself. He grinned at Becca.

“Sam, that's great.” Becca came down on her knees beside him. “I did come for you, didn't I? That's right, sweetie. Take another drink of your hot chocolate. It's
good, isn't it? Now, tell us what you were doing when he got you.”

But Sam didn't say anything more. He looked once at his father, yawned, and shut down. It was the strangest thing she'd ever seen. Sam just shut his eyes and went to sleep, slumping against Tyler's chest. One minute smiling, then just gone.

“He's a very brave little kid,” Adam said, rising. “If it's okay with you, McBride, can we speak to him in the morning? At least try?”

Tyler looked like he wanted to shoot all of them, but in the end, he slowly nodded. “I'm taking him home now.”

Adam looked at Becca, then said, “Nah, forget about us talking to him again. Sam probably doesn't have all that much more to tell us that would be useful. It's done and over. Please don't tell the sheriff about it. We're leaving right now. I guess whatever it was Krimakov wanted, he got.”

“But what the hell did he want?”

“I don't know, Tyler,” Becca said. She kissed Sam's cheek. “He's a very brave little boy.”

“Will you come back to see him again?”

“Yes,” she said. “I will. I promise. We just have to get all this business resolved first.”

When Tyler was out the front door, Adam said suddenly, “Hold it right there, Becca. Your back. With all the excitement, I forgot about your back. He shot you with something. Let me see.”

But there wasn't much to see. A bit of blood, a small hole, nothing more. “Why did he do this?”

“I don't know,” Becca said to him over her shoulder, “but I promise I feel just fine. Here's the dart he shot into my shoulder. You see the rolled paper around it.”

Adam unrolled the paper, frowned as he read it. “The bastard. What is he thinking? What is his plan? I hate this. He's controlling us. All we're doing is reacting to what he initiates. Damnation.”

“I know. But we'll turn it around. Come on, Adam, let's
get out of here. I'm very relieved that Sheriff Gaffney hasn't found his way here yet. Where is my father? Sherlock and Savich?”

“Sherlock went back to Washington with the handwriting samples. Your father, Savich, Hawley, and Cobb are waiting for us. I'll tell them to meet us at the airport; we're out of here.”

They were driving away in her rented Toyota when she thought she saw Sheriff Gaffney's car in the distance. She stomped down on the gas.

She looked over at Adam's profile. He looked pissed and very tired. Not physically tired, but a defeated tired. She understood because she felt the same way.

Nothing made any sense. He'd gotten her here, he'd shot her with a dart in the shoulder, and delivered Sam. Nothing else.

Where was Krimakov? What in God's name was he planning to do now?

 

D
r. Ned Breaker, a physician whose son Savich had gotten back safely after a kidnapping some years before, was waiting at Thomas's house when they arrived.

All the men shook hands, Savich thanking him for coming. “She refused to go to a hospital.”

“No one you work with ever does,” Dr. Breaker said.

“This is Becca, Thomas's daughter. She's your patient, Ned.”

“Dr. Breaker,” she said, “I'm really okay, nothing's wrong. Adam already checked me out.”

Adam said, “And now it's time for the real doctor to step up and have a look at the wound in your shoulder. We have no idea what was on that shaft that Krimakov shot into you. Be quiet, Becca, and do as you're told, for once.”

She'd honestly forgotten about her shoulder. It didn't hurt. Adam had washed it with soap and water and put a Band-Aid over it. She was frowning when Thomas said, “Please, Becca.”

“All right then.” She took off her sweater and lifted her hair out of the way.

“Come into the light,” Dr. Breaker said. She felt his fingers on the wound, gently pressing, pushing the flesh together, perhaps to see if any liquid or poison or God knew what came out. Finally, he said, “This is very strange. You were actually shot with this dart in the parking lot of a gym?”

“That's it.”

She felt his fingers probe the area again, then he stepped away. “I'm going to take some blood, make sure there's nothing bad going on inside you. It looks fine, just a shallow puncture wound. Why'd he do it?”

“I think it might have just been to deliver a note to us,” Savich said. “There was a note wrapped around the shaft.”