21
Thursday, 8:30 p.m.
Rachel has researched the Dunleavy family until her eyes are tearing and her head is spinning. She knows them better than they know themselves.
She’s read every blog and Facebook feed and Instagram post. Every tweet and retweet. She knows that Toby took up archery because he was inspired by a Danish speed archer in a YouTube video, not his father’s bow-hunting proclivities. She knows that Amelia Dunleavy has a peanut allergy and that her elementary school has banned peanuts because of it.
She’s read all of Mike’s newish bow-hunting blog and his food blog all the way back to his very first post, in 2012, a recipe for a chocolate Bundt cake.
She knows that Helen wanted to return to work full-time but was worried she didn’t have the energy required to be a fifth-grade teacher. Tons of stuff like that. Some of it helpful to Rachel; most of it not.
She closes the files on her computer and looks at her notes. She’s printed out a map of Beverly and drawn the possible routes back from the archery club to the Dunleavy house. It’ll have to be researched on the ground. She has prepared a B target and a C target, but she knows little Toby Dunleavy is going to be the one.
Full dark now on the basin. The boats are in for the night.
Clothes are everywhere, the cat’s litter box is unemptied, the breakfast dishes are still there—the house is a goddamn Tracey Emin piece of modern art commemorating a more innocent time that is never coming back.
Rachel examines her left breast. It doesn’t feel any different, but the doctor is probably right to be concerned—there could well be something malignant growing in there again. If she does nothing, the malignant entity will kill her, erase her from existence. How pleasant that would be.
She stares through the window. The clarity of the light has faded and the agitated sky has turned dark blue and black.
The drizzle has become rain.
She hears what sounds like a pickup truck coming down the lane.
She sprints outside.
Pete gets out of the cab and she runs to him and he put his arms around her and they stand there in the downpour saying nothing for fifteen seconds. Pete helps her back inside and they sit at the living-room table.
“Tell me the whole story from the beginning,” Pete says.
Rachel tells Pete everything that happened since that first phone call, including everything she has done: paid the ransom, gotten the phones, gotten a gun, broken into the Appenzellers’ house, tried to figure out exactly whom to kidnap. She doesn’t tell him about the renewed concerns of her oncologist—that’s between her and death.
Pete listens but says nothing. He lets her talk.
He tries to take it all in.
It’s incredible.
He has seen evil up close in Afghanistan and Iraq, but he wasn’t expecting something this clinical and diabolical in America. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine a malevolent force like this coming near his family. This is some serious organized-crime or cartel shit.
“What do you think?” Rachel asks when she’s done.
“I think we have to go to the cops, Rachel,” he says soberly.
She’s been expecting this answer. She shows him the story about the Williams family on her laptop, and while he’s reading it, she tells him about the man outside the bank. She takes his hand. “You didn’t speak to them, Pete. I did. That woman holding Kylie is terrified for her son. If they tell her to kill Kylie, she will. I know she will. She’ll kill Kylie and select another victim to stay good with them. Keeping The Chain going is our only option.”
She knows she sounds like someone in a cult, but that pretty much sums it up. She’s all in now, she believes them, and she wants Pete to believe them too.
“So to get Kylie back, we’ll have to kidnap someone,” he says, shaking his head in horror.
“We have to, Pete. If we don’t, they kill her. If we go to the police, they kill her. If we ever talk about it, they kill her.”
Pete’s mind goes back to that class he had been forced to take on ethics at Quantico. The Israeli IDF guest lecturer had given them a presentation on why it was ethical to disobey an illegal order. Morality entered into the equation even in the military. And what Rachel is contemplating now is not only illegal but absolutely morally wrong. Morally wrong from every conceivable angle. The ethically right play would be to go to the FBI immediately. Find the nearest FBI field office and tell them the whole story.
But that will get Kylie killed. Rachel believes that, and he believes her. And Kylie’s safe return is the only thing Pete cares about.
The decision’s been made. If they have to kidnap someone to get her back, he’ll do it. If he has to kill someone to get her back, he’ll do it. If he gets her back and they stick him in a cage for fifty years, it will be easy time, easy because Kylie will be safe.
“This morning they sent me a photo of Kylie to show me that she’s safe,” Rachel says. Shaking, she gives Pete her phone.
Pete looks at the photo of little Kylie blindfolded and sitting on a mattress in a basement. There are few clues to her location that he can see. She’s been given Poland Spring water and she’s got graham crackers, but those you can get anywhere. Kylie does not seem to have been physically abused but of course she must be terrified beyond belief.
He goes to the kitchen and pours himself some coffee. He takes a moment to assess the situation. “We’re ruling out the police? Definitely?” he asks.
“The Chain voice and the woman holding Kylie were both very clear. They said that if I break any of the rules, they’ll have to kill Kylie and move on to another target.”
“How will they know if you’re breaking any of the rules?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have they bugged your house? Have you had a break-in recently or any unusual visitors?”
“No, nothing like that, but I think they hacked my phone earlier today. They knew a police car was behind me on the highway. And they know who I’m calling and what I’m talking about. They seem to know where I am at all times. I think they might have been looking through the phone’s camera. Can they do that?”
Pete nods, turns off Rachel’s iPhone, and puts it in a drawer. He closes her MacBook and places it with the phone. “Sure. You say you bought disposable phones?”
“Yes.”
“Use them for all outgoing calls from now on. And don’t use your computer again. I’ve brought mine. They’ve probably hijacked the camera on your phone and computer and disabled the camera light so that they can see you and you don’t even know it’s on. The stuff that goes on in intel black ops would blow your mind.”
“I covered the camera with a piece of tape.”
“That’s a good idea, but just be aware that they might be listening too. I’ll search the house for bugs. You say you haven’t had a break-in? What about an unscheduled TV-repair guy or plumber or anything like that?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Good. Could just be spyware. Now, what have you told Marty?”
“Nothing so far. He’s in Augusta, playing golf.”
“He’s my little brother and I love him, but Marty’s got a mouth, and if you’re worried about security or someone going to the FBI…”