Phantom Limb (7 page)

Meanwhile, the thunderous sound of the gunshot had long since faded, leaving only entrails of smoke curling up from the tangle of twisted metal and burnt wire.

Until another sound—common, familiar—took its place.

Mundane, but terrifying.

The desk phone, undamaged.

Ringing.

Chapter Eight

“Get off me and answer the goddamn phone!” Charles Harland shoved away his head of security with a surprising ferocity. “But first, turn me around.”

Mike Payton stood to his full height, turned the old man's wheelchair so that it was facing into the room, then hurried to pick up the phone.

Behind the desk with Barney, I was close enough to hear a muffled voice coming from the phone, telling Payton to put it on speaker. He did.

“Good evening.” The voice on the other end was metallic, otherworldly. The caller was obviously using some kind of voice-distortion device. Though it still sounded male.

“As you can all see,” the voice went on, “the Feds won't be tracing this call now.” A pause. “Though I trust the kid hasn't been hurt too badly.”

Barney gave me an astonished look, which probably mirrored my own. Putting my arm around his waist, I helped him carefully to his feet.

By now, Biegler and Gloria had also come out from cover. As had Arthur Drake and James Harland, though the latter stood in a far corner, back pressed against the wall.

The laser light had returned, its glowing scarlet point tracing a wandering path up and over the room's furniture, and along the hardwood floor.

“I told my associate merely to disable the equipment,” the voice continued, “but sometimes ricocheting bullets have a mind of their own. Sorry, Barney.”

At this, Barney's gaze changed from surprise to alarm. I didn't blame him. How could the kidnapper know his name?

I could tell from their faces that the same question had occurred to Biegler and Gloria. Joining Payton at the front of the desk, both still had their guns drawn, at the ready.

“You called in the authorities, Mr. Harland.” The voice had an almost reproachful tone. “After I expressly told you not to. A grave miscalculation on your part. For those keeping score, let's call it Strike One.”

I glanced over at Harland, whose eyes burned like embers.

“Listen, you cowardly piece of shit, do you really have my Lisa? Is she alive?”

“Yes to both questions. As I'll let her tell you herself.”

There was a sharp, tearing sound. Probably duct tape. And a woman's startled yelp.

Then her voice. Choked, terrified, but defiant.

“Charles! You gotta help me! Do what this motherfucker says or he's going to kill me! He already—”

“Lisa!” Despite his frailty, Harland looked as though he might jump out of his chair. “Are you all right? What did he—?”

“That's enough, Lisa,” said her captor. “They only needed what's called ‘proof of life.' You just provided it.”

“Fuck you! I hope you burn in hell, you cocksucking—”

A gruff, mirthless laugh. “Don't get so excited, you'll hurt yourself. Stop squirming.”

“Then untie me, you slimy prick. I—”

Suddenly, her words slurred into an enraged, muffled gasp. Her captor had obviously—and roughly—reapplied the tape.

“Don't worry, Harland,” he said. “She's okay. But, Christ, your wife's got a mouth like a two-dollar whore. I don't know how the hell you put up with it.”

“I swear, if you hurt her…”

“Well, that's up to you, Charlie. You don't mind if I call you ‘Charlie,' do you? Now that we're getting acquainted. You can call me…oh, I don't know…call me ‘Julian.' I've always liked that name. Has a classical sound to it.”

Gloria leaned in toward the phone's speaker. “Since you're so interested in being sociable,
Julian
, how about getting your guy to stow his weapon? It's making everybody nervous.”

“A reasonable request, Agent Reese. Let me see.”

The speaker went silent. Perhaps so that “Julian” could contact his partner, the sniper in the trees.

I must have guessed right, because the laser light abruptly winked off. Though the phone speaker remained silent.

“Is he
gone
?” James whispered. A half-minute had gone by. “Why doesn't he
say
something?”

Biegler blurted out, “More important, how the hell does he know who we are?”

Gloria let her gun hand drop to her side. “It's apparent he can see us, somehow.
Hear
us, too.”

“From those trees? I don't care how good his sniper is, how powerful the sight. I don't believe it.”

“Besides,” I pointed out, “he seems to know our positions in the room. Including Mr. Harland's, over at the wall. Nobody out in the trees could see all those angles.”

Payton grimaced. “Nobody has to. This Julian—whoever the hell he is—has been watching and listening to us the whole time from
inside
the room.”

“What?” Drake exclaimed. “But how—?”

Payton pointed up at each of the two interior wall corners, at their junction with the ceiling. Small, insect-eyed video cameras hugged the shadows. Lenses glinting dully.

“The security cameras,” he said. “With microphones. All over the residence, in every room. Including this one.”

Drake looked unconvinced. “But aren't they all controlled by the central security station, off-site?”

“They
should
be, given what we pay the security company.” Payton shrugged. “But nowadays, a good hacker can ‘bot' any video system remotely. This guy could be watching us from a van out on the street, or from a hundred miles away. Which means—”

James Harland stepped forward, sighing heavily. “Which means, we're all on a reality show from hell.”

“Very clever, James.” That same metallic voice, coming from the phone speaker, as the laser point flickered on again. Flitting around the room like a predatory firefly, alighting on a chair or table, then drifting along a wall. But always in motion.

“I discussed Agent Reese's request with my associate,” Julian said, “and we decided to maintain the tactical advantage of keeping you all in his crosshairs. Sorry.”

Gloria glanced at me, her voice low. “Jesus, this isn't a kidnapping, it's a paramilitary op.”

I nodded. Whatever the hell it was, it was clearly well-planned and well-executed. By people with specialized knowledge and training.

Julian spoke again, sharply. “Okay, Charlie, let's get things moving. Has your bank delivered the bearer bonds?”

Harland's thin lips tightened. I could tell that being spoken to like this was more than an affront to him. It was actually disorienting. In its way, inconceivable.

Finally, the old man found the words.

“Yes. The money's in an armored truck. Outside.”

“Good. I want the bonds delivered in a plain, zippered suitcase. I'll tell you the time and place. I don't care who the courier is, as long as it's a civilian.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, no cops or Feds make the delivery. You already disappointed me by calling them in. But this is as far as their involvement goes. The drop-off will take place where I'll have a clear vantage point in all directions. If I see so much as an off-the-rack sport coat or an eight-dollar haircut, your wife dies.”

Julian's tone hardened. “And trust me, I'll make sure it isn't quick. Truth is, I don't like her attitude. Not one bit. So it isn't going to be a bullet in the brain. You understand? I can go through a whole round before hitting something vital. Could take her hours to die. Maybe a whole day, if I do it correctly. Am I making myself clear, Charlie?”

Harland slowly nodded.

“I can see that you're nodding, Charlie. So I'll take that as a yes.”

Suddenly, Mike Payton growled something under his breath and reached inside his jacket. Pulling out an automatic pistol, he aimed it at one of the ceiling cameras.

Drake called out. “Payton, no—!”

The red laser point swept across the room in seconds, pinning itself on Payton's shirt front. He froze, staring down at it with a mix of frustration and rage.

And then, exhaling quietly, he lowered his gun.

Julian spoke evenly.

“I appreciate how difficult this is for you, Mr. Payton. For a man of your background and experience, your impotence must be especially galling. Even humiliating. But if you don't holster your weapon immediately, my associate will put a good-sized hole through your heart.”

Swallowing hard, Payton did as he was told. Then very deliberately looked off, the planes of his face tight.

After which, the laser point dropped away from his chest and continued its lazy, circuitous journey around the room.

“Now, Charlie,” said Julian, “where were we? Ah, yes. I need you to choose who is going to make the delivery. Other than yourself, of course. Regrettably, the drop-off point is not wheelchair-accessible.”

Harland hesitated only a moment, then peered intently at his son.

James showed his palms. “Me? No fucking way. I'm not getting my ass killed for that slut. Sorry, Dad. No can do.”

Payton gave him a disgusted look. Then, almost eagerly, the security man turned to his boss. As though grateful at last for an opportunity to act. To
do
something.

“I'm the logical choice, Mr. Harland. I'll go.”

Julian's voice rose sharply. “No, you won't, Mr. Payton. Under the circumstances, I'm not prepared to consider you a civilian. You're sitting this one out.”

For some reason, I wasn't surprised when Arthur Drake spoke up next. Calmly and resolutely.

“
I'll
go, Charles.”

“No.” Harland's jaw set. “I won't allow it. It's too dangerous, and I simply can't spare you.”

His son stared at him. “Gee, thanks, Dad.”

Harland studiously ignored him. Then, as though finally regaining his sense of his own authority, he looked up and directed his words to one of the security cameras.

“I choose Mr. Payton. He is my head of security, charged with the protection of myself and my family. He will go.”

“Maybe he would, Charlie…
if
you were calling the shots. But you're not.
I am
. So I guess that means
I
get to choose.”

Another brief silence. Followed by the red laser point, moving silkily along the edge of the desk. Drawing a half-dozen pair of eyes as it sought its next target.

Me.

I watched the glowing dot travel up my right arm, until I couldn't see it anymore. But from the concerned look on Gloria's face, staring at me, I knew where it had stopped.

“Looks like you're it, Dr. Rinaldi,” Julian said. “
You'll
make the delivery.”

I wanted to respond, but my mouth had gone dry. My heart pounding hard and fast in my ears. I imagined I could feel that insistent red dot burning into my forehead, like the sun's rays focused through a magnifying glass to a single incendiary point.

Gloria gave me a commiserating look.

“You don't have to do this, Daniel.”

“Yes, he does,” Julian snapped. “
If
he wants to see Lisa Campbell alive again. And remember—no cops, no Feds, no choppers. Just Dr. Rinaldi and the money. Otherwise, Lisa won't be the only one who ends up dead tonight.” A brief pause. “You feeling me, Doctor?”

I knew, since he could see me, that all I had to do was nod.

So I did.

Chapter Nine

I parked on a side street off Perrysville Avenue, climbed out of the late-model SUV and looked up through a tangled skein of trees at the Allegheny Observatory. Perched at the highest point of Riverview Park's steep, dense woodlands, outlined by pale exterior lights, the neoclassical basilica's towering Ionic pillars and three massive domes dominated the hilly landscape.

It was almost midnight, sky so black and clear it shone. Wind cold enough to burn my cheeks. As instructed by Julian, I'd driven alone here to the park, just north of the city, in one of Harland's company-owned vehicles. A large zippered suitcase containing five million dollars in bearer bonds had been belted into the passenger seat beside me.

After selecting me from among those in Harland's study, Julian had outlined a set of instructions for the delivery of the ransom. Any deviation from the plan would result in Lisa's death. Then he told us all to stay exactly where we were for ten minutes, and warned against anyone using his or her cell, or trying in any way to leave the room. To guarantee our compliance, his “associate” would keep his weapon trained on us until the brief time was up. As if to emphasize the point, the laser dot began once more to roam the room.

After these final words, the phone went dead.

Then began one of the longest, most agonizing ten minutes of my life. Most of which was spent in a strained, uneasy silence, during which nobody moved. Except for Gloria. Keeping her gun drawn, she'd gone to sit with Barney, who remained behind the desk, clasping his wounded arm.

Alternately embarrassed or angry, Mike Payton kept glancing over at his boss, whose face was curiously unreadable. Biegler was quietly seething. Arthur Drake looked morose and older suddenly than his years, while James Harland sat with his shoulders slumped, frightened eyes scanning the floor.

I also took a seat, and found myself drawn as if hypnotized to the wandering movement of the laser point. Not the most tranquil way to spend ten long, tortuous minutes, granted. But for some reason, it helped focus my concentration. Gave my conscious mind something to do, other than to surrender to panic or despair.

Until, finally, I saw the red dot disappear. Our signal that the time was up.

As if to confirm this, Arthur Drake glanced at his Rolex. Then nodded to Harland.

But Mike Payton's eyes were on me.

“You ready to do this, Rinaldi?”

“Hell, no.”

He almost smiled. “Then you better get going.”

Gloria Reese rose and walked me to the door, urging me to be careful. I think I thanked her, though by then all that concerned me was remembering Julian's instructions.

Lisa's life was at stake.

As was mine.

***

Now, after locking the car, I carried the heavy suitcase back to Perrysville Avenue, searching with a flashlight along its endless bank of trees for a marked trailhead. For some reason, Julian hadn't specified the marking. He'd just assured me I'd know it when I saw it.

He was right, though I almost passed by the dirt path that wound up into the wooded hills. The trail was marked by a coarse wooden stave buried in the earth. Something hung from a nail atop it, glinting dully in the frozen light of the moon.

A pair of glasses. Cracked, smudged.

Lisa Campbell's glasses. The pair she'd worn in my office earlier today. A million years ago.

I drew in a breath, laced with bitter cold.

I stood there, unmoving, at the trailhead. I told myself it was to give my eyes a few more moments to adjust to the dark, but the truth was, I needed to calm my nerves. Looking at the trail curving up into the deep gloom of gnarled trees and coiled branches, I kept imagining a laser dot appearing suddenly on my arm, my chest. Crawling remorselessly up to my forehead.

Gathering myself at last, I tightened my grip on the suitcase handle and took my first step onto the trail. My breathing quick and shallow, I wound my way up the steep, broken earth, flashlight beam bouncing before me, ducking under thin-fingered branches and stepping over exposed roots. Every few minutes I peered up through the patchwork of foliage to the majestic domes of the observatory, using them as a kind of reference point.

Though the building itself was not my destination. Julian told me only that I was to ascend the marked trail until it split into two separate paths.

I was to take the one to my left.

Despite the cold, I could feel sweat beading my forehead. Feel the stiffness in my fingers from their death-grip on the suitcase handle, as though someone might wrest it from me. Feel the pounding in my temples from the raised lump on my head.

It was entirely possible, I realized for the hundredth time since leaving Harland's house over an hour ago, that I wouldn't survive this night.

Then, also for the hundredth time, I pushed that thought from my mind.

And kept walking, stumbling more than once on the slippery, unforgiving trail. Up and up, one foot after the other, moonlight showing through the foliage like shards of porcelain.

Until, gasping, head throbbing, I came to where the trail broke off into two smaller paths.

I was about to take the one on my left when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket.

I froze, mouth going dry. Julian? The police? Some news, some change in plans?

With my free hand, I plucked my cell from my pocket and read the display. And, despite myself, almost laughed aloud.

It was Noah.

***

I ignored it, and watched the display until it indicated that a voicemail message had been left. Naturally, Noah had marked it “Urgent.” He usually did.

Noah Frye was a paranoid schizophrenic, his grotesque delusions kept barely in check by psychotropic meds and the devotion of his girlfriend Charlene. I'd known him since my days at a private psychiatric clinic years before, when I was an intern therapist and he was a patient. Now we were friends.

Which was why I also knew what he was calling about. With everything that had happened since Lisa Campbell's appointment with me this afternoon, I'd totally forgotten my original plans for tonight.

As I stood now at the fork in the trail, holding a suitcase worth five million dollars, the absurd triviality of those plans came crashing in on me. Instead of exchanging a ransom demand for a woman's life, I was supposed to be having drinks with Noah and Charlene at the saloon where they both worked. Deciding on a wedding gift for a mutual friend.

I could just see Noah now, his bear-like frame in stained overalls, pacing back and forth behind the bar. Hair unruly, sweat-matted. That familiar lunatic's glint in his eyes. Wondering where the hell I was. Perhaps constructing elaborate, delusional fantasies about what might have happened to me.

Maybe I'd been in a car accident. Or been murdered by one of my patients. Or brainwashed by rogue Russian spies. For Noah, it was an entirely reasonable possibility that I'd been abducted by aliens.

That image made me smile. Tightening my grip on the suitcase, I headed for the narrow path on my left, wishing that something as fanciful as alien abductions did occur. As opposed to the murders, sexual abuse, and myriad other real-life horrors that afflicted human beings in this hard, uncertain world.

Like kidnapping. And what usually happens afterwards.

Steeling myself against the cold, the darkness, and my own unyielding fears, I plunged forward along the steep dirt path, deeper into the haunted night.