Pete and Rachel wave goodbye from the doorstep, go inside, and close the door.
Five twenty now. So much time wasted. Archery begins at six, and Toby Dunleavy’s walk home begins at seven o’clock.
“They want another twenty-five thousand by midnight or they’ll kill Kylie,” Rachel says, trying to ward off panic.
“I’m already on that,” Pete replies, and she watches as he logs on to a Bitcoin buying site on the dark web.
“What are you going to do?” Rachel asks.
“Fifteen-thousand credit limit on one card, ten-thousand limit on the other, no problem,” Pete says.
“Do you have money in the bank to cover that?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? Getting Kylie home is all that matters.”
Rachel kisses him on the back of the neck and helps him set up an account and transfer the funds.
“Are you watching the clock?” she asks him.
“Nearly done,” he says. “Get the Dodge warmed up. Make sure the masks and gloves are packed.”
She runs outside, loads the vehicle, puts the key in the ignition, and starts the engine.
It’s five minutes to six now.
“Done,” Pete says when she comes back in. He looks at Helen Dunleavy’s Facebook feed. “She’s on her way to the archery club. We better go too. I’ll get the gun.”
“I don’t want this boy hurt,” Rachel says.
“I don’t think we’ll need to hurt anyone, but we might need to fire a shot in the air to scare off any Good Samaritans. I’ve got a loud Colt .45 that’ll do that,” Pete assures her.
Rachel nods. She thinks of those words, I don’t want this boy hurt. This boy. This boy has a name: Toby. He’s Toby Dunleavy. But it will be easier to think of him as this boy. An abstract thing. Not a human being. Not a human child. They might need to threaten this boy. They might, in fact, need to carry out the threat.
She shudders. Pete stares at her.
“All right. Let’s go,” she says.
They get in the Dodge and drive down Route 1 toward Beverly. Traffic is heavier than normal, but they aren’t worried. It’s only a twenty-minute run and they have an hour before archery gets out.
Pete takes her hand and gives it a little squeeze. “Maybe you better call your mother and prep her in case Marty calls looking for Kylie.”
“Good idea,” she says and dials her mother in Florida.
“I’m about to play bridge, what is it?” Judith answers.
“Mom, listen, I just told Marty that Kylie is staying with you in New York.”
“What? Why did you do that?”
“He came over today and it’s one of his weekends but Kylie hates Marty’s new girlfriend and didn’t want to go stay with him, so I just sort of panicked and said that she was with you for a couple of days in New York.”
“But I’m in Florida.”
“Mom, I know you’re in Florida, but if Marty calls, you have to tell him that you’re in Brooklyn and Kylie’s with you.”
“What are we doing in New York?”
“Kylie wants to see all the Egypt stuff at the Met.”
“She would like that.”
“And you guys got tickets to see Hamilton.”
“How did we manage to do that?”
“I don’t know, maybe you know some old lady who isn’t using her tickets.”
There’s a long silence on the line while Judith thinks about it. “This is quite the web of lies you’ve hooked me into, Rachel. Now I’m going to have to pretend I’ve seen Hamilton if my ex-son-in-law calls. What am I going to say?”
“Hell, Mom, can you not think on your feet? Oh, and you’ve confiscated Kylie’s phone,” Rachel snaps as they pass a sign that reads BEVERLY, NEXT EXIT.
“Why would I take my thirteen-year-old granddaughter’s phone?”
“Because you’re sick of her coming all the way to New York City and then just staring at a piece of glass six inches from her face the whole time she’s there.”
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” Judith says.
“OK, Mom, thanks a lot, you’re a lifesaver. I better go,” Rachel says as they arrive in Beverly.
“Take care of yourself, honey, I worry about you.”
“I’m fine, Mom. Everything’s fine.”
She hangs up. It’s drizzling and a chill wind is blowing in from the water. “Don’t like this weather,” Pete says. “Helen might change her mind and pick up Toby instead of letting him walk. I better check.”
There’s nothing on Facebook, but using the worm on the home PC, they find Helen writing a text to her sister to say that, per her recommendation, she is watching Atomic Blonde with Mike.
They have their window.
They park on Revenue Street at six thirty, but for some reason a line of kids and adults are coming out of the Old Customs Hall.
“What the hell? Who are those kids? Jesus, I think that’s the archery club!” Pete cries.
“Look at all those bows and stuff. It is them! We’ve screwed it up already!” Rachel exclaims.
“Go! Run the route!” Pete says, and Rachel puts the car in gear.
“I’m going.”
“I don’t understand it. They’re supposed to get out at seven o’clock. Why would they leave early? And half an hour early! It makes no sense,” Pete says.
“Oh God, oh God,” Rachel is saying over and over.
“It’s all right,” Pete says evenly. “They’re only just getting out. We’ll be OK.”
Rachel drives quickly up Revenue Street. She turns on Standore Street, and there, about a hundred yards up the road, is a kid in a parka carrying a sports bag with what looks to be a composite bow sticking out of it. The kid has his hood up and is walking in the direction of the Dunleavys’ house.
“Is that him?” Rachel asks.
“No idea, but that sure looks like the end of a bow in his bag. And there’s nobody on either side of the street. For the moment.”
“Ski masks on,” Rachel says, desperately trying to keep the blind panic out of her voice.
“Coast is clear,” Pete says. In the end they hadn’t needed the trees or the dark to hide them because the rain deterred any potential witnesses. Rachel puts the wipers on, kills the lights, drives the car up the street, and stops in front of the child.
“No one around,” Pete says, scanning both sides of the road.
“Go, then!” Rachel says.
Pete jumps out the passenger-side door with the .45. Rachel sees him talk to the kid. He turns and shakes his head at her.
Something’s wrong. Pete comes back to the car without the boy.
What the hell is happening?
“What’s the problem?” she demands.
“It’s a girl,” Pete says.
Rachel pulls her ski mask down and gets out. And sure enough, it’s a little, skinny, brown-haired girl about eight or nine years old. She’s carrying a gym bag that looks far too big for her.
“Did you just come from the archery club?” Rachel asks her.
“Yes,” the girl replies.
“Why did they get out early?” Pete asks.