Stolen (32 page)

I
shook my head furiously from side to side, trying to send a signal to Higgins that the mission had failed, but I couldn’t look to see if he understood. If Higgins sent in the cavalry, the Fiend might still detonate the bomb. Something had gone wrong. There wasn’t a switch to deactivate the device, and I had no idea how to shut it off.

“What’s going on? What’s happening?” Dobson shouted at me. “What’s that note?”

His shaking returned. The strength and resolve he’d shown earlier seemed to have abandoned him. His eyes betrayed his state of mind. I’d seen it on the mountain. Brooks had the look. Clegg did, too. “I’m going to die.” That was what his eyes said. “This is it. Sayonara. Arrivederci. This is the end.”

“Come on, Henry. Get inside with me. You can do it.”

I shuffled to my left, one sliding step scraping across the concrete, followed by another. Dobson came along, shuffling in sync with me. I reached the window, slipping a leg inside, bending at the waist, and getting another leg in there. Awash with relief, I glanced behind me and saw Ruby still thrashing about on the floor.

“The bomb isn’t deactivated,” I said to her. “I don’t know what to do. If I untie you, he might detonate the device. I’m going to get Dobson back in here. Stay patient, sweetie. Just hang in there.”

She didn’t like my words. Not one bit.

I poked my head back out the window, encouraging Dobson along. He got to within a foot of his portal to safety when a gust of wind slapped at his knees. Dobson lurched forward, arms flailing for balance. At the same instant, I leaned out the window and reached for him as he fell. My hand clasped his forearm just as the rest of his body vanished from my view.

The collective holler of the onlookers lifted skyward in a singular crescendo. I gripped his arm with my other hand and used the windowsill as a barrier of sorts to keep the pull of his body weight plus the added weight from the vest from dragging me out. He grabbed hold of me as well. I could feel him but couldn’t see him.

Dobson swung pendulum-like against the outside of the building, scraping the side of the wall from left to right, then back the other way, the force of his grip crushing the bones of my wrists. My throbbing hands threatened to release the tenuous hold I had on his forearms. I leaned farther out the window, our eyes locked, Dobson’s terror becoming my own. I had no idea what was happening on the street below us. Had the fire department set up any netting? One of those inflatable mattresses, perhaps? I didn’t know the answer, so I pulled, feeling the snap and stretch of the muscles in my shoulders, arms, and legs as they exerted themselves against an unrelenting strain. They burned for relief as Dobson’s terrified screams ripped through me. Here was my chance to make some amends for the sins of my past. The rope I had to cut. The life I had to take to save my own. Here was a piece of salvation.

Pressing my feet against the underneath of the windowsill, I pulled hard enough to dislocate Dobson’s shoulders. I felt him inching upward, so I pulled even harder. There was Brooks on that mountaintop again. I saw him waving to me from somewhere, from that great beyond. Who knows? I pulled, my body shaking, teeth clenched, making savage grunts and groans.

No more death. No more dying
.

Thrusting with my legs, I allowed the full force of my backward momentum to carry Dobson up the side of the building like he was hitched to a pulley system. Dobson came tumbling through the window and landed right on top of me. I felt the nails from the bomb vest poke against my chest. Dobson rolled off me, breathless and heaving.

I stood up first and then helped Dobson to his feet. Marimba chimes rang out. My phone. I answered.

It was Clegg. “What’s going on, John?” he said. “Are we sending people in?”

“The bomb . . . is . . . still active,” I told him, hands on my knees, body bent, heaving and struggling for breath. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Should we come up there? You give the word,” Clegg said.

“He might detonate it if you do.”

“Let me talk to him,” Dobson said, tapping me on the shoulder. “The kidnapper said something to me that might help.”

I handed Dobson the phone. He turned his back to me. Ruby was screaming through her gag. My stomach threatened to rebel. It wanted me to untie her. But if I did . . . if that was the wrong choice . . .

I went to her, caressing her face, trying to calm her down. Smoothing her hair, I told her it would be all right, just stay patient, that sort of thing. I turned back around and saw Dobson standing in front of me. He held up the phone, offering to give it back, and I reached for it.

“Congratulations, Johnny. You’re a real criminal now,” Dobson said. His voice had shifted into a rasp familiar and chilling enough to set goose bumps on my skin.

I was confused, trying to process what I just heard. I was looking at the phone, still reaching for it, getting my brain around the strangeness of Dobson’s voice, which was why I didn’t see his other hand, the one holding a knife. As I took the phone, Dobson plunged a seven-inch blade into my stomach.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I
don’t know how many times I got stabbed. Five? Six? Ten? It’s hard to count when you’re being murdered. I crumpled to the floor like I’d been unplugged, clutching my gut, feeling myself grow weaker by the second. Blood seeped through the makeshift dam of my fingers to collect on the floor beneath me. The world looked askew, everything tilted. Dobson’s canvas sneakers—yes, those made the most sense for standing on a ledge—came shuffling toward me, but my eyesight was blurry and fading. I sensed Ruby near me, a beacon of sorts guiding my hands toward her, and yet everywhere I reached I couldn’t seem to find her. Now I understood—too late, of course. She hadn’t been begging for me to untie her. She’d been warning me about Dobson—the Fiend.

Dobson’s footsteps spoke a language all their own. “I’m coming,” they said. “I’m coming, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.” He bent down, getting close to me, and lifted me up by my shoulders. Not off the floor, entirely, just enough so he could slide the bomb underneath. I felt those nails and ball bearings pressing up against the knife wounds, a searing pain.

“Can’t risk an autopsy showing that you were stabbed,” Dobson said, again speaking in that raspy, guttural voice I recognized as belonging to the Fiend. “Oh, and by the way, thanks for saving my life out there,” he said in his normal speaking voice. “That little slip and fall incident wasn’t planned, I can tell you. Not at all. Whew!” He wiped the back of his hand across his brow to show his relief. “I thought you did amazing, by the way. I mean, talk about a true test of your criminality. You faced your greatest fear and picked that lock! You’re a master, John. You’ve won the game. Wow, what a rush! I knew this would be great, but I didn’t know how great. I mean, my heart is really pumping. It never did that when I was choking the Uretskys.

“Anyway, the good news is you’re going to die a hero, John. I’ll tell them I took off the vest in a panic and tossed it to the floor. I ran out the door, quick as a bunny.” Using two downward pointing fingers, he pantomimed the idea of legs moving fast. “Well, I guess I must have dropped the vest near Ruby. I saw you going for the bomb just as I was leaving. You wanted to save your wife, naturally. Makes perfect sense. And then, boom, it went off. Well, it didn’t go off by itself. I’ve got the remote trigger, which I’ll get rid of on my way out of here.”

“They’ll know,” I said. “The police will figure out that you don’t work for UniSol, and they’ll hunt you down.”

“I thought you’d know me better by now. I’m looking forward to having them try and find me. It’s just another game to play. Sorry, buddy, but that’s how it ends. You were so much fun to play with. I mean, I really, really loved playing with you. Guess I’ll see you on the other side.”

He smiled wickedly. I saw his feet turn.
Time to go.
Next, I heard those footsteps as they headed for the door. Slow moving. No need to rush. I listened to the sound of his footfalls on the hardwood floor. I listened. And I listened. And when I didn’t hear footsteps anymore, I knew he’d gone out the door and into the carpeted hallway. I counted to ten, having no idea how long he’d wait to set off the bomb. Five seconds? Three? He’d want to get safely down the stairs. Maybe a flight. Maybe two. So I counted to ten, filling my lungs with resolve.

I pushed myself off the floor onto my hands and knees.

I got to my feet, shaky and off balance, wincing in pain, with blood seeping from my body in a steady stream.

I picked up Ruby, feeling my stab wounds ripping. The agony burning from within turned my vision black.

I carried Ruby over to the window—dragged her—my steps shuffling and off balance, but effective.

I pushed her out the window.

The bomb went off.

T
he blast waves hurled me out the window in rocket-propelled fashion. I was in free fall. Nails sliced through the air with the speed of missiles. Glass shattered and spread out in all directions. Bricks exploded outward, pelting me with debris, but my rate of descent pulled me down faster than the objects on a collision course with my body. Most of the debris lost thrust and posed more of a risk to the people down below than it did to me. For me, the real danger was falling. Oh, and my stab wounds.

Brooks. I thought about Brooks. The fall would last only a few seconds. My thoughts came and went quicker than a streaking star. This must be how he had felt. Now I knew. Dropping into the infinite. Not knowing what awaited him. The ground rising as fast as the sky fell away. A scream. A yell. One final cry. One last confirmation of life. Or was it?

I hit the inflatable mattress dead center. The
whoosh
of displaced air filled my ears. I savored the bounce as the mattress gave way to my weight, then rose up again. Ruby rolled into my body. The gag muted her sobs. I fought a tide of billowing fabric to get off the mattress. Bodies converged on us. Hands latched onto my arms and pulled me toward the edge, staining the mattress with long streaks of my blood. Clegg helped me down, propping me up with his arm. I hung on him, limp and useless.

“Don’t move me. Don’t move me,” I said.

We were standing—well, he stood; I was propped—directly in front of the glass door entrance of 157 Beacon Street. Angry spurts of blood spilled my life force onto the street. My vision darkened. The world began to spin. Round and round. Quick like a bunny. I saw Dobson’s fingers making that same gesture. Quick like a bunny. I remembered the coolness of his touch. How clammy his skin felt on mine. But I stayed on my feet, waiting . . . waiting.

The front door opened, and out stepped Dobson. He had the frantic look of someone who had panicked in the face of grave danger and had rushed to safety, leaving Ruby and me behind to die in an explosion. That look faded as soon as he saw me, replaced by one of total surprise.

“It’s him,” I wheezed loudly enough for Clegg to hear. “It’s Dobson. . . . He’s the bomber . . . the Fiend. . . . He’s the Fiend.”

Dobson gave me a wretched look. He glanced in all directions. Then he smiled a big, toothy grin. I saw him touch his fingers to his eyes. He walked toward me. Clegg didn’t budge. He kept me propped upright.

“You need to see this,” Clegg said to me. “I owe you this.” Dobson came closer, his smile widening.

“Show me what?” I said, my voice weakening. “Aren’t you going to arrest him or something?”

“He’s not going down like that.”

Dobson got closer.

“How’s he going down?” I asked.

Dobson reached into his pocket and pulled out the knife, still stained red with my blood. He sliced the air with the knife, smiling, coming closer.

“This way,” Clegg said. Then he shouted, “Police. Drop your weapon!”

Dobson was no more than ten feet from me, crazed, deranged beyond reason. He lunged forward, thrusting the knife out in front of him as though wielding a bayonet. He got to within an arm’s reach of me when Clegg, in a singular motion, took out his gun and fired a shot. The bullet just barely nicked Dobson’s ear as it zoomed past his head.

Dobson staggered backward but managed to stay on his feet, weapon still in hand. Blood spewed out sideways and down from the wound in Dobson’s head.

Clegg kept his gun trained on Dobson. Dobson broadcast his intent by raising his knife overhead. Suicide by cop, that was how he was going down.

“I said drop your weapon!” Clegg shouted again.

Dobson still advanced. Clegg fired again, this time skimming the side of Dobson’s mouth with his bullet. Dobson’s splintered teeth sprayed like ceramic snowflakes, falling in all directions, the knife clattering to the ground.

As Dobson fell backward, blood sputtering from his shattered mouth in a thick river of red, Clegg fired a third time. The third bullet struck Dobson square in the right eye, sending blood, bone, and brains bursting from his body through a massive hole put in his skull.

“Game over,” Clegg said.

I blacked out.

“O
kay, we’re live in five . . . four . . . three. . . .”

The producer conveyed the countdown on his fingers as well. After what I’d been through, I didn’t think anything could scare me. But then I thought,
Millions of people watch
The Today Show. I pictured folks puttering about their homes, drinking coffee, getting ready for work, getting kids ready for school, with the TV on. I was about to enter many a household to share my story, and that thought put a lump in my throat and sweat on my palms.

Matt Lauer sat at the news desk with
The Today Show
logo projected numerous times on the blue screen behind him. I had whispered to Ruby, “Okay, I can see the attraction,” when Lauer greeted us a few minutes before our
Today Show
exclusive interview was scheduled to air. The guy radiated magnetism, and his charm seemed homespun authentic. He made sure we had everything we needed—water, something to eat; all in all, he proved a very gracious host.

I winced as I settled myself onto the studio couch. Stab wounds like those I suffered don’t heal completely in a month’s time. I had spent two weeks recovering in a hospital and another two weeks at home on bed rest. My mom came out for much of that recovery period. Bless her! Nothing beats a mom when you’re on the mend. I lost my spleen, and it took ten hours of surgery to stitch back all the inside parts Dobson—aka the Fiend—had punctured.

Ruby and I had gone from obscure to world famous within an ambulance ride. Meanwhile, Winnie surprised us all by taking a break from the booze to become our protector, safeguarding our privacy like a reinforced steel door. I figured Clegg would do that job, but he was off climbing somewhere. Higgins took his badge and gun pending the outcome of the internal affairs investigations, so he had plenty of time to kill. When the interview requests came—and come they did—Winnie, at our behest, declined them all. But when
The Today Show
called, I told Ruby we needed to take that one. The circle wouldn’t be complete unless we did.

“You should get a suit like Matt’s,” Ruby had said to me before the producer’s countdown began.

“So now he’s Matt to you, is he?” I whispered.

Ruby smiled. “Jealous?”

I looked over at Lauer and shrugged. The light on top of camera one went red. We were live.

“And now to the story of John Bodine and Ruby Dawes, the young couple at the epicenter of the SHS Killer story, which gripped the country just four weeks ago. John and Ruby are here in studio to share their story exclusively with
The Today Show,
but first Natalie Morales reports on their harrowing ordeal.”

They cut to Natalie, who gave a brief introduction, then cut to the prerecorded segment. A lot of what was filmed would be used for a
Dateline
special about the SHS Killer. The producers at NBC had done some hefty editing and in less than ninety seconds recounted for viewers Ruby’s cancer, my desperate ploy to get her medication, Dobson’s first contact with me, and my subsequent life of crime, which ended with me tossing Ruby out a window and Clegg killing the SHS Killer in front of hundreds of witnesses. Lauer joined us on the couch before the taped segment ended. Production people swarmed about, all frantic and fiddling, but Lauer ignored the commotion. He was too focused on us, settling our nerves and boosting our confidence. As the taped segment came to an end, a different producer did another countdown and once again we were live on air.

“John and Ruby are here in the studio now for an exclusive interview,” Lauer said. “Welcome, and first of all, how are you doing?”

“Thanks, Matt,” Ruby said. “We’re doing much better now that John is out of the hospital.”

Lauer looked at me.

“You suffered some pretty serious stab wounds,” he said. “How is your recovery?”

We talked about my injuries long enough for Lauer to get squeamish.

Lauer said, “Tell me, did you have any idea that when you were helping Henry Dobson off the ledge that he was the person responsible for everything that happened to you?”

“No,” I said. “Absolutely not. In fact, there were a few times that I was with Dobson when the SHS Killer contacted me.”

Lauer looked interested. “How is that possible? Can you tell us?” he asked.

By “us” I knew Lauer meant millions of viewers and not just the people in the studio, but somehow he made me forget about all the TV cameras.

“The first time Dobson showed up at our apartment, he was pretending to be an investigator from UniSol Health. He seemed official, and given what we’d done, Ruby and I weren’t about to contact UniSol to verify his employment. On his way out the door, the phone rang. It was the SHS Killer, telling me that I was going to rob a liquor store next.”

“But if Dobson was in the room with you, how did he make the call?” Lauer asked.

“It was a recorded voice,” I said. “Dobson took out his phone, pretending to check a message, but he was really initiating a computer program that dialed my number and played a prerecorded message. He wanted me to think it couldn’t be him. That was part of his game. He even sent me a text message while he was standing on the ledge. That was automated as well.”

“So Henry Dobson was a computer expert?” Lauer asked. “Is that how he found out you stole the Uretskys’ identities?”

“From what the police have told me, the real Henry Dobson was a Grade A computer hacker,” I said. “He didn’t work. He made his money scamming people online and spent most of his free time playing online games. Turns out the FBI was after him for a variety of cyber crimes, only they didn’t know it was Henry Dobson committing them. Dobson and Elliot Uretsky formed a friendship through a violent online game they both played, but Uretsky didn’t know that Dobson wanted to live out his violent fantasies. Dobson took over the Uretskys’ identities after he killed them. When I stole the Uretskys’ identities, UniSol sent an automatic e-mail to Uretsky’s e-mail account, which Dobson was monitoring. That was how he found out somebody else was using the Uretskys’ identities. He hacked his way into the computer systems of Post Boxes Unlimited and found out our real names and addresses.”

We didn’t talk about Carl Swain or Edwin Valdez. I was glad Lauer didn’t ask about them. The police found their bodies cut up and stuffed into a large freezer in Dobson’s basement. They also found another listening device planted in our Harvard Avenue apartment. Forensic guys later determined it was activated on the day Dobson paid us a visit after we learned of the Uretskys’ murders. I had spoken to Clegg by phone about Swain and Valdez shortly after Dobson left, so that’s how he knew I thought they were involved. He killed them so the police wouldn’t be able to find them. He did it so that I would have more people to suspect. He did it because, in a way, they were connected to me.

“You’ve been through so much,” Lauer said, “but I have to ask you—and I think a lot of our viewers who have been following your story have the same question—when you tossed Ruby out that fifth-story window, did you know the fire department had inflated safety mattresses? Or did you think, I’ll take my chances that she’ll somehow survive the fall?”

Ruby fixed me with a pointed stare. The question had been gnawing at her as well. “Yeah, sweetie, did you see the mattresses?” she asked, smiling a little.

“I had faith,” I said, “faith that somebody did their job. I just believed that she’d land safely. When all this started, I didn’t want to put my faith in anybody. Ruby wanted to come on
The Today Show
to plead our case, but I shot down the idea. Mountaineering taught me the virtue of self-sufficiency. But at that moment I had to put my trust, my faith, in the hands of somebody else. The biggest regret I have in all of this is that I didn’t reach out to others when I needed help the most.” My voice cracked a little. Ruby took hold of my hand and squeezed hard. “I’ll spend my life living with that regret, and I’ll do everything I can to help those who have been personally impacted by this ordeal.”

Lauer gave me a moment to regain my composure.

“And how are things now?” he asked.

“Now,” Ruby said, “Atrium has decided to fully fund my course of treatment. There was a huge push online to get them to change the policy once people learned of our story. I’m scheduled to have surgery next month, so hopefully between the drugs and the surgery, I’ll be cancer free, and John and I can try and pick up the pieces of our lives and go from there. We want to start a family soon. We just want things to settle down first and get back to normal for us. We’re hoping that will happen soon.”

“Well, you’re a remarkable couple with a bright future, and I wish you both the best of luck,” Lauer said.

I looked over at Ruby and could tell by the look in her eyes what she was thinking.