Taken (5 page)

T
he marble floors of the Fairfax National Bank feel spongy somehow. I’m wearing my sensible flats, not the heels the man in the ski mask picked out. My knees are watery and light—I’d be wobbling on those heels. Not a good sign when you’re about to make a major transaction.

I catch sight of my image in the plate-glass mirrors near the vestibule, and am amazed at how normal I look. A not-quite-young career woman in her elegant, perfectly understated DKNY outfit. Still slim, almost willowy. Small breasts, nice trim butt molded by the line of the perfectly draped trousers. Frankly, I look like a million bucks. Or a half million anyhow. Never know from looking at me that my heart is racing and my bones are infused with equal parts dread and wild anticipation.

Hoping this will all be over soon. It must, one way or another. Couldn’t stand another day of this.
Follow the method and you’ll have your kid back by three, the latest.
That’s the deal, supposedly. So I’m being my best obedient self. What other choice to I have?

None.

Around my left ankle, concealed by the slightly belled trousers, is a plastic bracelet with a small electronic tracking device. Snapped on just before I left the house. Out of his immediate control, but not, apparently, out of view.
I’ll know exactly where you are at all times. Take the wrong street, I’ll know. Try to leave the bank by a back door, I’ll know—and your kid will pay the price.
I tell him the ankle bracelet is unnecessary, that I’ll do exactly what he has requested, but he smirks and tells me to shut up like a good girl.

The GPS tracker is backup. My team will have you in visual contact at all times. You won’t see them, but they’ll be there. Count on it.

In my sweaty hands is the manila folder he handed me in the garage, just before I slipped behind the wheel of my minivan. The folder contains the necessary financial information, as well as a brochure for Island Dream Villas.

“If you’re thinking about making a run for it, now’s your chance,” he tells me as I hit the ignition key. “Just remember, there are consequences. We will not hesitate. Your son will die. Follow the method, do not deviate from the plan, and he will live. It’s that simple.”

“What if I have an accident?” I ask him.

“Make sure you don’t.”

A moment later I’m backing out of the garage. At first it feels like I’m driving drunk—I’m dizzy with anxiety—but by the time I make the first turn I’m more or less in control, and follow the agreed-upon route without incident.

Made it. Ready for the next step. To my left is the teller area, three windows open. One of the people waiting to conduct business is the beautifully coiffed owner of a downtown jewelry store, clutching his blue, zippered bag with yesterday’s receipts. Can’t think of his name, but we know each other by sight. What would he do if he knew? Nothing to stop me from telling him, nothing to stop me from announcing that my son has been abducted and the man behind it waits inside my house. Nothing but the fear that I’ll never see Tommy again.

I march into the back area, where the loan officers work in small carrels. Find the desk marked Assistant Vice Treasurer. The woman at the desk, another familiar face, looks up and smiles. “Good morning, Mrs. Bickford.”

“Morning, um, Diane,” I say, reading the nameplate.

“Have a seat, please. Now, what can I do for you?”

I lay the folder in my lap. “I was told you handle wire transfers.”

“One of my many jobs. You need to wire funds?”

I nod. Mouth so dry I’m having trouble forming words. “I’m, ah, buying a vacation home.”

Diane brightens. She’s about my age and similarly dressed. There doesn’t seem to be a hint of suspicion in her open, pleasant face. But then she knows me, apparently.

“You catered my niece’s wedding. Alana Pillsbury?”

“Of course,” I said. “You’re Margaret’s sister?”

“Sister-in-law. It was lovely really. Those people you have, they’re so nice. And the food—to die for! Bill and I were expecting rubber chicken, you know? Because I happened to know what the per-plate price was—Margaret can’t keep a secret, not about money! So we were simply amazed when we saw the spread.”

“We try,” I say.

“This must be your busy season.”

“Yes, we’re pretty well booked until October.”

“Fabulous. Now, what’s this about a vacation home?”

With slightly trembling hands, I push the brochure across her desk. “They call them villas. But it’s really like a condo sort of thing. Separate buildings, but the association takes care of everything,” I say, repeating the lines supplied by the man in the mask. Who has assured me there will be no problems. All this about villas is just window dressing, a diversion. People in my “bracket” transfer funds all over the world, supposedly. Never thought of myself as being in a particularly elevated “bracket,” but obviously he thinks so.

There is no indication that Diane disagrees, or doubts my intentions.

“Oh, my God, I’m so jealous. A villa in the Caribbean!”

“It’s an investment, really. We won’t be able to use it for more than a few weeks a year.”

“It’s fabulous, Mrs. Bickford.”

“Kate, please. Here’s the information.” I hand her the instructions. Copied in my own hand.

Diane studies the page, looking quite serious. Now it will all blow up in my face. Surely she’ll figure it out, press a button under her desk, and in a moment the bank will be flooded with uniformed police officers. Instead, she smiles and nods and says, “Sea Breeze Limited is handling the sale on that end? And this is the number for their bank?”

I nod. “They’re, um, my appointed agents. That’s the number they faxed me.”

“And this is the account you wish to transfer from?”

I nod again, fearful that my voice will give me away.

Diane goes to her computer screen and checks the balance. “Excellent,” she says. “Funds are sufficient. Almost to the penny. Do you want the wire fee to come out of your regular checking account?”

I nod again.

“Okay, now we have to be formal. I know who you are, Kate. Of course I do. But it’s a requirement that we see two forms of ID.”

I’m prepared for this, and produce my driver’s license and a copy of my birth certificate.

“A credit card would have been fine,” she says, handing them back. “But the birth certificate works, too. Okay. We’re almost there. I need to print out a form, then you sign it and we’ll be done.”

Three minutes later I sign my name. Concentrating so that my hand doesn’t tremble.

“All there is to it,” Diane announces. “You understand that the IRS will be notified of the transfer? The new security regulations require they be notified for any sum transfer in excess of ten thousand dollars, or any overseas transfer, regardless of size. This qualifies on both counts.”

“That’s fine.”

“Excellent.”

“How does this work, exactly?” I’m departing from the script, but it seems like something that should be asked.

“We use Chase Manhattan. It’s all electronic, of course. They notify the recipient bank that funds are due, and that bank distributes the funds. Assuming the number you gave me is correct, the transaction should be completed before the end of business. Probably a lot sooner.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” she says brightly. “We’re done here.”

As I stand to leave, she shakes my hand. “Congratulations, Kate! If you ever need a house sitter, let me know.”

A minute or so later I’m back in the minivan. Barely have time to put the keys in the ignition when the cell phone in my purse starts ringing. It’s his cell, not mine, and it takes a moment for me to get it opened.

“Any problems?”

“No. They said by the end of business.”

“You did good, Kate. And now I want you to fasten your seat belt. It’s not like you to be so careless.”

I look wildly around. There are other vehicles in the parking lot, but I can’t see anyone watching me.

“Oh, they can see you,” he says in my ear, as intimate as a lover. “You just can’t see them. Come on home, Kate. Follow exactly the same route that got you there. I’ll be waiting.”

“My son!” But the cell phone is dead.

Driving home is like a dream. Some other version of me drives while I observe, wondering how she manages to do it. Steer the wheel, tap the brakes, come to a complete stop at the intersections? It all seems so complicated. And yet I’m functioning as if everything is normal. Just another day in the life of Katherine Ann Bickford.

Am I being followed? Again, there are other vehicles behind me, but nothing sticks out, nothing announces malevolent intent. And yet clearly he knows where I am and what I’m doing. Knows whether I’ve fastened my seat belt or not. Knows whether I’ve been naughty or nice.

Turning onto Linden Terrace, I hesitate. Dreading what happens next. I’ve been out of his direct control for almost forty minutes and the prospect of returning to him, submitting myself to that loathsome creature, is almost more than I can bear. Never hyperventilated before, but there’s always a first time, apparently, because I’m panting like I’ve just run a marathon. Points of light dance in my eyes. Dizzy.

I slowly brake to a stop, trying to get control over my breathing.

The cell phone chirps like an angry bird. I open it, drop the damn thing, finally fish it out from under the console.

“What are you doing!” he demands.

“Panic,” I manage to say. Telling him the absolute truth.

“Get your ass back home, lady. Now! Pull into the garage and put down the door.”

The other me takes over, the one who knows how to drive, the one with nerves of steel. And as the garage door clunks down behind me, the man in the ski mask yanks open my door. Reaches across my waist to unfasten the seat belt, the gun cold and hard, pressing into the soft part of my neck.

This is it,
I’m thinking.
Now he kills me.

Instead, I’m pulled out of the driver’s seat—he lifts me with one arm, that’s how strong he is—and placed on the concrete floor of the garage. He’s over me, a booted foot on each side, pinning me in place. Then he slowly crouches, knees pressing against my chest with his full weight. Making it impossible to draw a breath. My legs begin to kick, futilely. Much too feeble. He barely notices. The pressure does not relent. Can’t breathe.

“Here’s the thing, Kate. It will take four or five hours for the wire to go through. That’s on average. Might be sooner, might be later. Nothing we can do to hurry it up. And I have other things to do. Promises to keep. So you’re going back to sleep.”

He plunges a needle into my neck. Everything gets warm and dark. I have one last thought before fading away.

Tommy
.

“S
o,” Cutter wants to know, “is the package ready?”

Hinks and Wald look up from the video game. Both appear to be perplexed, which Cutter has learned are their default expressions, regardless of circumstance. Both men are competent, in a limited, military-trained sort of way, but neither seems capable of thinking outside the box. That’s just fine with Cutter, who prefers to do all the heavy lifting, brainwise. Left to their own devices, the two men would be working mope jobs, maybe attempting small-time robberies, or deviant sexual diversions, on their days off.

In other words, without Captain Cutter to lead them, Hinks and Wald would be losers.

“Package is dead to the world,” says Hinks, fiddling with the PlayStation controls. A gift from Cutter, who understands the need to remain occupied while enduring downtime. “Shot him up like you said.”

“You checked his pulse?”

“Wald’s department. He’s playing doctor.”

“Wald?”

“Fifty-five and steady.” Wald doesn’t look away from the images on the screen. Some cartoon creature with massive limbs and enough weapons to blow its imaginary world to hell.

How Wald thinks of himself, Cutter muses. Tough, durable and deadly, but controlled from a distance, by someone with a smarter computer chip.

“You made sure his throat is clear?”

“Breathing like a baby, last time I checked.”

“And when was that?” Cutter asks.

Wald glances at his wristwatch, a strapped and gleaming device that notes the time in all twenty-four zones. “Thirty minutes, give or take.”

“Check again.”

“I’ll get right on it, sir,” says Wald, but makes no move to abandon his cartoon killer.

“Now, Wald.”

“Favor, sir? Make sure Hinks don’t mess with my buttons.”

Cutter rolls his eyes. Wald puts down his PlayStation controls and pads into the adjoining room. Hinks grinning and reaching for his partner’s controls. “Mind if I fuck him up?” he asks.

“Not in the least.”

“We got the money?”

“We got the money,” Cutter says. “Wire cleared at thirteen hundred hours.”

Hinks fiddles with Wald’s controls, very pleased with whatever mischief he’s committing. “Mind if I ask you a question, Captain?”

“Permission granted. You may speak freely,” says Cutter, using an irony that, he knows, will go through Hinks like invisible smoke.

“When do we get paid?”

“Three days. That’s how long it will take to get the money back into the country.”

Hinks nods, as if satisfied. Cutter gets the impression the man isn’t primarily in it for the money. He likes the excitement. Not that he’d give up his cut.

“’Nother question, sir.”

Cutter nods.

“Why not take out the female, sir? Why leave her alive, now that we’ve got the dough?”

“Are you questioning my methods?”

“Didn’t say that, sir. Just wondering if it’s worth the risk.”

“Risk assessment is my responsibility, remember?”

“Sure, of course. I was just, you know, wondering and all.”

Cutter stares at him, expression neutral. “Don’t wonder, Hinks. Leave the wondering to me. But just so you’re not tempted to exercise your brain, the lady has been left alive because she’s part of the diversion. What form that diversion will take, you’ll just have to wait and see. You’ll just have to trust me. Do you trust me, Hinks?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

Wald appears in the doorway. “I said no fucking around! I better be at third level, you cheating, thieving bastard!”

“The package?” asks Cutter, willing himself to have patience.

“Fine, sir. Except he pissed the bed.”

“In that case you better change the sheets.”

“Fuck.”

“Do it, Wald.”

Wald sighs, vanishes back into the bedroom. Bitching all the way.

“Two hours,” Cutter tells Hinks. “Then we make our next move.”

Hinks looks up from the game. “Permission to ask another question, sir?”

Cutter nods. “Go ahead.”

“Did you do her, Captain?”

“Define ‘do.’”

“Fuck her, mess with her naked body, whatever.”

Cutter smirks. “Is this in regards to your ten-dollar side bet with Wald?”

Hinks’s jaw drops.

“I know everything,” says Cutter. “You should know that by now.”

“I’ll be damned. You wired the van!” Hinks looks amazed.

“I wired your brain, Hinks. I know how you think.”

Hinks shakes his head in admiration. “So did you do her, or what?”

“Let me put it this way,” says Cutter, allowing himself to preen, for Hinks’s benefit if not his own. “The lady is totally fucked.”