Taken (3 page)

T
he white panel van is unmarked, but it will almost certainly be mistaken for a phone company van, or a vehicle dispatched by one of the many utility companies that service the area. Which is precisely why it was selected. A white panel van in a suburban neighborhood is as close to invisible as a solid object can get.

Some minutes before Mrs. Katherine Bickford enters her home on Linden Terrace, the white van parks next to a street-surface utility access on Beech Terrace. Two men wearing generic work clothes and tool belts exit the van, place three incandescent orange cones near the manhole cover and return to the van.

The white van is positioned in such a way as to afford it a clear view through the common, toward Linden Terrace and—no coincidence—the target home, a shingled Cape with a large garage. This common area, which abuts three cul-de-sac streets in the development, is known as “the green,” to local residents.

A full two-acre swath, the green is a popular dog-walking area. No resident would think of walking a dog there without a pooper-scooper in hand. It’s that kind of neighborhood. By mutual agreement foliage is kept low, no more than twelve inches in height, so as not to provide cover for any nefarious activities that might arise. Drug dealing, teen drinking, whatever. Residents are in the habit of glancing toward the green whenever they exit their driveways, because children play on the green, kicking soccer balls, playing laser tag, or fluttering Frisbees. So far there’s never been a problem with strangers or suspected pedophiles, but by common consent all the residents keep an eye on the green, and are prepared to report anything unusual.

The white van with the orange cones is not unusual and will therefore not be reported. Likely it will not even be noticed.

Inside the van, two men, both approximately thirty years of age, drink from a silver thermos of coffee. Both men are trim and physically fit, and seem at ease with each other, as if they are well suited to working as a team. From the outside, a passerby might suppose the two men are listening to the radio as they pause for a coffee break—Rush Limbaugh, perhaps, or maybe G. Gordon Liddy—but in reality they’re monitoring an audio feed from the target home.

“Fucking guy,” says Hinks in a tone of admiration.

“You gotta hand it to Cutter,” says Wald. “He’s got a way with women.”

“Fucks he do it?”

“Language, Hinks. We’re working for the phone company here. They have standards.”

“They can kiss my ass,” says Hinks, sassing him back.

He’s known Wald for nine years now, eight in the military when they held the same rank in a special ops unit commanded by Captain Cutter. This is their first foray into a civilian mission, and so far it has been interesting—and potentially much more lucrative than any of the boring jobs either man has been offered since being discharged. That the assignment is highly illegal, and laden with danger, makes it all the more appealing.

Their banter is interrupted by the intercepted cell call to Cutter, currently inside the target home. Upon hearing the substance of the call, the two men exchange glances.

“That woman is out of her ever-loving mind,” comments Hinks. “The lovely Lyla.”

“Piece of ass,” agrees Wald, “but definitely missing a few crucial marbles.”

“Violating protocol.”

“Cell’s scrambled,” Wald points out. “No harm, no foul.”

“Still. The woman is a loose cannon. What if she goes to the cops? Think they’d believe her?”

“Cutter will handle her. Just like he’s handling this Bickford bitch.”

Hinks pauses, listens to the feed. The boss dispenses with the cell call and is now laying it out for the Bickford bitch in no uncertain terms. Less than twenty minutes inside and she’s eating out of his hand. Eager to obey.

Truly an amazing talent.

Out in the field, the special ops rule of thumb was ten hours. That’s how long it would take, on average, to break a typical target. Scare the shit out of ’em, strip away the ego, leave ’em so empty they have no choice but to cooperate. Of course, this is a civilian situation, totally different, but even so, good old Captain Cutter is impressive. Has it down to a science. His so-called “method,” which the unit had used in numerous special ops situations. The idea, Cutter bores in on the target with that crazed-psycho routine of his, keeps it up until their eyes bug out with fear, then he backs off just before they start screaming. Hinks had witnessed Cutter pulling the same bullshit act in a bar in the Philippines. Mindfucking a couple of rowdy jarheads who, had they realized it, could have torn Cutter into small pieces. And yet he had prevailed by convincing the dumb-shit marines he was crazy enough to want to die and take them with him, just for laughs.

The man was convincing. So convincing that now and then Hinks wondered if it really
was
an act, but thus far Cutter had always been able to snap back precisely when the situation required. The cap ever got to the point he couldn’t turn it off, they’d probably have to frag him. But that was theoretical—so theoretical he and Wald had never even discussed it—and for the time being Hinks was content with the situation. Working for Cutter was way better than sorting letters for the postal service or sitting on his butt as a security guard. There were risks to Cutter’s method, of course—very serious risks—but the rewards were commensurate with the risks. Cutter’s words. Cutter’s method. For right now, for today, Hinks was in with both feet.

Wald, not exactly a deep thinker, tended to follow Hinks’s lead. It had been that way since basic, and so far Hinks hadn’t steered his bud wrong.

“You think he’ll do her?” Wald wants to know. “Kind of hot, for a oldie.”

“Oldie?” Hinks chuckled. “The Bickford bitch is thirty-four. That’s only a few years older than we are.”

“Nineteen is my target age. I like ’em fresh. As you well know.”

“Think of it this way. When you were a freshman she’d have been a senior.”

“Yup. And I’d have waited a year until she was nineteen. That’s when they’re ripe.”

Hinks shakes his head. “You’re a wack job, Wald.”

“I just know what I want.”

“Total wack job.” It was said with some affection. Wald’s wacky humor made him interesting.

For instance, this time on a night patrol in Takrit, trying to sort out the Saddam sympathizers from the general malcontents, Hinks had seen Wald suddenly wheel around and shoot an unarmed camel jockey in the head. Guy had been standing there with his hands empty, glowering at the troops but not resisting while the unit conducted a search for concealed weapons. Without warning, Wald dropped the son of a bitch like a side of meat. After which he turned to the rest of the unit and said, “What can I say? I could read his mind. Fucker was thinking evil thoughts.”

Later it was determined that Wald’s victim had indeed been a former member of Saddam’s Baath party. Even if he hadn’t been carrying grenades at that particular moment, no doubt he really was directing evil thought waves at the American soldiers, just like Wald said.

“So,” says Wald, “the question remains. Will Cutter do her? He gonna bone the bitch or what?”

Hinks shrugs. “Doubtful. He never did much fooling around I ever saw, not even in Thailand. Also, it’s not part of the method.”

“Fuck the method. If she’s in my range,
bam
.”

“Not how the captain operates,” says Hinks.

“So far.”

Hinks checks his watch. “Twelve minutes, we have to move the vehicle.”

“I got ten bucks says the captain will have her licking his ice-cream cone by then.”

“You’re on.”

Safe bet. Hinks is convinced that Wald is projecting his own adolescent fantasies, what he’d do if he was the one inside the target home. Cutter is different. Cutter will remain in control not only of the target but of himself.

That’s what Hinks thinks. And so far he’s been right on the money.

T
he idea that the man in the mask might want to rape me rattles inside my head, bouncing around like a malevolent pinball. Can’t quite grasp what I will do if he tries. Saving my son remains the primary concern. The only concern, really. My physical well-being doesn’t concern me at the moment. All that matters is getting Tommy back.

It’s like this: if cutting off my hands would make this man go away and return my son to my bleeding arms, I’d do it. No hesitation. That’s the kind of bargain I’m willing to make.

“So you’re a widow,” he’s saying, waving the gun at me like a wand. “Must have been tough.” He pauses, tilts his head. “You may respond.”

“It was tough,” I concede.

“But you bounced back,” he says, sounding weirdly, creepily cheerful. “Did very well for yourself, Kate.”

I remain in the chair, palms sweating, heart slamming. I can still feel the impression the barrel made on my forehead. Meanwhile, the man in the mask acts like it never happened, like we’re having a normal conversation. There he sits in my best leather chair, confident and pleased with himself, as if he’s an honored guest in my house. It makes me hate him. Makes me think that if I had the gun I’d use it, no hesitation. Which is something of a shock. Never having imagined I was capable of such a thing.

Oh, but I am. And yet I dare not make a move. The man in the mask is much stronger than I am, much quicker, and it’s clear he won’t hesitate to kill me if I give him reason to.

I’m sitting here in a cold sweat, thinking about nightmares. How vivid and real they can be. But nothing like this. Nothing like the dread that has settled into my bones. A dread that comes from the realization that there’s nothing random about what has happened. It has all been planned, down to the last detail. Consider: the man in the mask knew exactly where Tommy would be. My son was taken from a crowded parking lot without anyone witnessing the snatch, not even me. My home-security system was breached, no problem. And the cell-phone call that pissed him off seems to be connected to
another
kidnapping. Tommy has been drugged and taken away and I will eventually be allowed to speak to him over the phone, supposedly. All of which confirms that others must be involved. The man in the mask is part of a team. A team of professional kidnappers using proven terror tactics to enrich themselves.

That’s the real nightmare.

Despite all the mall stories about bogeymen, all the sad-looking kids on milk cartons, I’d always assumed real kidnappers were rare, opportunistic predators. Sick loners who stole children for their own twisted sexual purposes. The notion of teams of professional abductors, terrorizing families for money, that was supposed to be a third world phenomenon. Something that happened in Mexico or Colombia or the Philippines. Not here. Not in suburban Connecticut. Not in Fairfax.

But it
is
happening. Facts on the ground, as the shouting heads on TV like to say. Nothing I can do to change what has already occurred. My mind has been racing with what-ifs. What if we never went to the game? What if I never let Tommy out of my sight? What if I’d called 911 from the parking lot as soon as the first pang of worry quivered in my gut? What if? What if?

Too late, Kate. Deal with it. Find a way.

Part of me remains convinced the man in the mask intends to kill me no matter what I do, or how much money he gets out of me, that erasing the victims is all part of the plan. But I can’t allow myself to give up hope. Not as long as there’s a chance, however small. Imprinted in my brain is the promise he’s made, that he will put me in contact with my son. Presumably before I get him the money, however that is to be accomplished.

My bank, I know, is closed for the day. Five o’clock they shut the doors. And it’s now well after six. The thought of waiting until tomorrow makes me physically ill. I can’t stand it that long, can I? My heart will stop if I can’t speak to Tommy soon, assure myself he’s okay.

“I can see your mind racing, Kate,” says the man in the mask. “You’re wondering how we’re going to do this. How you get the money and exchange it for your son.”

I keep my mouth shut, knowing he’ll tell me.

“Very good,” he says, amused. “You’re learning not to respond without permission. We knew you were a smart lady, Kate. That’s why this is going to work, once you learn the method.”

A phone bleats, jolting me in the seat. My phone this time. He pauses, cocking his head. “Let it go,” he instructs. “Your voice mail will get it. Then we’ll see who it is.”

The phone rings six times and then goes silent.

“Two minutes,” he says, settling back in my chair. “Relax.”

I’m watching the digital clock on the VCR. Never thought a second could take so long to elapse, as if time itself has become molten.
Tick, tick, tick
—but of course there’s no actual sound. No comfort from an old-fashioned clock.

When a little more than two minutes has passed, the man in the mask stands up. He moves a few steps to his left, the gun pivoting as he moves, unerringly aimed at my heart. He retrieves the nearest phone and returns to my chair. Settling in, getting comfortable. Mocking me with a small, satisfied smile. With his left hand he thumbs a number.

“Surprised?” he asks. “I know your voice-mail code, Kate. I know everything.”

He pauses, listening to the prompts, thumbs a button on the receiver, listens some more.

“Somebody named Jake,” he says, disconnecting. “Wants to know if you located Tommy. Would Jake be the guy at the snack trailer by any chance?”

I wait.

“You may respond,” he says.

“Yes.”

He tosses the phone at me. It hits the middle of my chest, right between my breasts, and falls into my lap. “Pick it up,” he says. “Call him back. Tell him the kid was at home when you got here. All is well.”

I scroll to Jake’s number, am about to key it in.

“Wait,” says the man in the mask. “This is your first test, Kate. Convince him. Convince me. If you fail, if you try to get cute, end of story. You and your son are both dead. Got it?”

I nod.

“Proceed.”

The connection opens almost immediately. “Jake Gavner.”

The phone is so slippery with my own sweat that I have to grip it with all my might. “Jake? Um, this is Kate Bickford returning your call. Just wanted to let you know Tommy is fine. He was here when I got home, playing a video game.”

“Great. Give him my best.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“Helluva a game he had.”

“Sure was. Helluva game.”

“Hey, put him on. I’ll tell him so myself. Maybe give him a rain check for that ice-cream sundae.”

For an awful moment my mind goes totally blank. I’m aware that the man in the mask is studying me with interest, as if curious to know whether I’ll pull this off. Whether I’ll live to make another phone call. The studied indifference is a pose—it has to be—but it says he doesn’t care one way or another. Live or die, my choice.

“Sorry, Jake. Sent him to the shower.”

“Well, don’t be too hard on the kid. Isn’t every day a boy gets a game-winning double.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him that. And thank you, Jake. I appreciate it.”

“Next time the dog is on me. With extra kraut.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

A moment after disconnection the phone slips from my nerveless hands. With a deft move the man in the mask retrieves it, checks to make sure I’ve really disconnected.

“I’m impressed,” he says. “You’re good. Even I believed you.”

The flood of relief makes tears come, but I fight it. Determined never to weep again in the presence of this vile man. This monster in my house, sitting in my chair, holding my phone. Holding my son.

“You should know that every call to this address is being monitored,” he says. “So if you tried something silly, I’d be informed. If, for instance, your friend Jake had said he’d like to drop by for a little post-game nooky with the widow Bickford, I’d know about it.”

Nooky. A word so sly and ugly that it makes my jaw clench. I’m not a prude, but certain words have that effect on me.
Get over it, Kate, I urge myself. Do not react. Don’t allow him any more control over you than he’s already got.

“As you’ve no doubt already figured out, we can’t transfer funds until your bank opens tomorrow morning. What I have in mind requires a personal appearance from the account holder. You, Kate. All prettied up and looking happy and relaxed because you’re buying a condo in the Cayman Islands. So pretty that soon I want you to get some sleep, Kate. Think you can do that?”

I shake my head no. Is he crazy? Sleep? Not a possibility. “My son. You said—”

“Shh.”

I shut up.

“Better. You had a little relapse there, speaking without permission. You’re forgiven this time, Kate. I’m in a forgiving mood because you did so well with the phone call. Tell you what, before beddy-bye we’ll call your kid, okay?”

I nod furiously.

“Before we get to that, I need to do a little walking around in your beautiful house. Check out a few things. So I’m going to cuff your ankles. Put your feet out in front of you and hold them together.”

I do as instructed and a moment later my ankles are cuffed together with a thick, white plastic strap.

“Can’t be released,” he informs me as he straightens up. “All it can do is tighten. If you don’t want the circulation cut off to your feet, you’ll leave it alone. I’m going to be out of the room for five minutes, tops. If you leave the chair, I’ll know and you’ll be punished. Very unpleasantly.”

In a blink, he’s gone. Out of my line of vision and prowling somewhere in my house. When I realize what it might mean, that the man in the mask has pressing business elsewhere in my house, my heart starts to race. Hope rings through my body like a gong. Tommy is right here in the house! He’s been here all along! He’s in the next room, unconscious but alive!

I leap to my feet, fall over with a thump. Facedown on my own plush carpet, I think,
Don’t be a fool, he’ll hear you
. He’ll punish you, and worse, he may punish Tommy.

Cautiously, silently, I get up on my knees and begin to crawl. A kind of bunny hop because I can’t move my feet. Hop, hop, hop. Dragging myself along with my hands. Making a line straight for the door where the man in the mask vanished. Leading me to my son.

Tommy is in his own bedroom, I’m thinking. Yes, yes! He was there all along and I never looked! Must be there, why else would the man leave me alone? Why else would he say, “I want to check out a few things”? Couldn’t be anything that important, with one exception. My precious son.

Even before I get out of the family room, I’m already thinking about how to get up the stairs. Should I make a diversion for the kitchen, find a knife, cut the ankle cuffs? No time.
Follow the man to Tommy’s room. See with your own eyes that your son is alive and safe in his own bed
.

I crawl to the stairs and prepare to ascend. My baby is up there in his own bedroom and he’s in danger, terrible danger.

I make it as far as the first step. That’s when the man in the mask emerges from the downstairs bathroom with his pants around his knees.

“Son of a bitch!” he exclaims, hastily yanking up and zipping his fly. “Can’t a man take a piss around here?”

Then he’s on me in a heartbeat, boot stomping into my back, forcing me down off the bottom stair, grinding me into the floor, forcing the air from my lungs.

Breathing heavily, he towers over me as I groan and roll over, trapped between his legs. “Kate, Kate,” he says with a sigh of disappointment. “What were you thinking?”

“Tommy!” I blubber. “In his room. You were g-going to ch-check on him!”

And then I weep convulsively. As I did the morning after Ted died, when I awoke thinking he was in the bed next to me. The awful disappointment crashing through me, rending me to pieces, dissolving me in tears and phlegm and shuddering misery.

The man in the ski mask kneels next to me, making soothing noises, stroking my back as it convulses with grief. “Shh, shh. Go on, let it all out. Do you good to cry, Mrs. Bickford. You thought your boy was here, in the house, huh? So you went to him. That was really, really stupid. We never keep the package in the target house, Mrs. Bickford. We’re very organized. We have a method.” He strokes my forehead, his rough thumb tenderly tracing the imprint of the gun barrel. “Do you understand? Am I getting through to you?” He pauses, dark eyes staring at me from out of the mask. “You may answer.”

“Y-yes.”

“Good. Now you must be punished.”

He reaches behind his back. Something glitters in his hand. Then he plunges a needle into my shoulder. Blackness flows from the needle, making my arm numb, oddly warm. A pulse of warmth carries the numbness into my head. Before I can organize my thoughts and fight it, I’m swirling around a drain, a dark hole in the center of my brain, going, going.

Gone.