Rachel closes the basement door behind her and walks into the kitchen.
“I think we can transfer the money tonight,” Helen says.
“Do it now! And then get scouting for a target. We’ll kill Amelia if we have to. I want my daughter back and you are in my goddamn way,” Rachel says and then she breaks the phone in half. She takes the back off it, removes the SIM card, and stamps on it repeatedly until it’s broken in two. She puts the remains in the garbage bag Pete keeps in the kitchen.
She stands there, shaking with anger and frustration.
Horizontal lines of dust levitate in the beams of sunlight coming through the shuttered windows. She can hear the sea breaking on the beach a hundred yards in front of her, and downstairs the little girl is humming to herself.
She breathes in and out, in and out. Life is a cascade of nows falling on top of one another without meaning or purpose. Of all the philosophers, only Schopenhauer ever got that right.
“I’m going back home,” she shouts to Pete and when the coast is clear, she slips out the back and walks over the dunes. She feels like crying, but she’s all cried out. She is stone. The Rock of Gibraltar. And again that thought—the Rachel of yesterday is gone. She Lady Macbethed the tears out eons ago, and she is a different person now.
33
Saturday, 7:41 a.m.
The man is taking a few minutes to pull himself together.
Kylie stares at him in disbelief.
Her plan A is gone; her plan B is gone.
There is no plan C.
“I don’t understand—why didn’t you load the gun?” Kylie asks at last.
“You think I would ever point a loaded gun at a child? Me? When all my professional life has been about…ooh, my head. And not after that incident with the…after what happened when we got you. Wow. It’s still throbbing. You hit me twice? That was really something. Now, be a good girl and give me the wrench.”
Kylie hands him the wrench and he puts it on the breakfast tray.
“I must say, Kylie, I really admire you. You’re resourceful and you’re determined and brave. If this were any other situation, I would be rooting for you to succeed.”
“Then please let me—”
“But I don’t want you to think I’m a pushover or that I’m not serious. I’m deadly serious. We’re so close to the end now. And we’ve been through so much. So I’m afraid that I’m going to have to punish you so you don’t do anything like this again.”
“I won’t. I can’t.”
“It’s a little too late for you to give your word on that.”
He leans forward and slaps her so hard that the chain jerks taut and she twists and falls to the concrete floor.
A ringing in her head.
White spots before her eyes.
Darkness.
An ellipsis of time.
White spots again.
Pain.
Blood pouring from her nostrils and her mouth.
Where is she?
Somewhere musty.
An attic?
A basement?
A—
Oh yeah.
She’s been unconscious for how long? A minute? Two? A day?
When she opens her eyes, the man is gone. He’s taken the wrench and the gun with him. The breakfast tray is still there.
Her face is stinging. Her head is light.
She sits up. If she tries to stand, she knows she’ll fall down again.
Her eyes aren’t focusing too well either. The far wall of the basement is blurring into one long smear of color.
Blood drips from her nose onto the sleeping bag.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Crimson blood pooling on the shiny nylon surface, making a shape like South America.
She dips her finger in the milk of the cereal bowl. Still cold. She’s been unconscious for only a few minutes, then.
She begins to cry. She’s so lonely and so afraid. Abandoned by the whole world with no ideas and no hope and no plan at all.
34
Saturday, 4:00 p.m.
Rachel drives to the mall in New Hampshire and brings back a first-aid kit, dolls, DVDs, a princess dome tent, and games. Pure guilt. Pure guilt after the fact. Amelia is doing better now. She played Snakes and Ladders with Pete and ate a ham sandwich.
They put up the dome tent and stick Frozen in the portable DVD player. They watch Amelia watch the movie for an hour until the Wickr app chimes on Rachel’s phone. She goes upstairs to read it.
A message from 2348383hudykdy2.
The Dunleavy ransom has been paid, the message says simply.
Rachel takes one of the powered-up burner phones and dials the Dunleavys.
“Hello?” Helen says.
“The ransom has been paid. You know what to do now.”
“How can we do that? It’s madness. It’s impossible,” Helen says.
There’s a brief scuffle and then someone says, “No.”
Mike Dunleavy comes on the line. “Now, look here—” he begins but Rachel cuts him off immediately.
“Put your wife back on the phone now or your daughter’s dead,” Rachel says.
“I want to know who—”
“Put your wife on the phone now, asshole! I’ve got a gun pointed at Amelia’s head!” she yells.
A second later Helen comes back on. “I’m sorry—”
“You will be sorry, you stupid bitch. Do what you’re supposed to or you’ll never see Amelia again. Once you have a list of targets, send it to the contact on Wickr for final approval,” Rachel snarls, and she hangs up.
She removes the SIM card and smashes it and the phone on the kitchen floor. She puts the broken phone in the garbage bag.
A few minutes later, she mirrors the Dunleavys’ home computer on Pete’s laptop and sees, sure enough, that they are trawling through Facebook feeds and Instagram accounts. Yup, that’s how you do it in this day and age.
Pete comes upstairs. “News?”
“They paid the ransom.”
“They could afford it. It’s the second part…”
“Yeah. How’s our girl?”
“She’s OK. Still watching Disney movies. I promised to play Operation with her later.”
Rachel nods absently.
“Look, Rach, you can go home, I’ll be OK here,” Pete says.
“No, I’m staying the night with Amelia,” Rachel insists.
“She asked me to stay tonight, not you,” he says gently.
“Why’s that?”
“She’s scared of you.”
“Oh.”
“It’s better if I stay. I’m used to roughing it. Sleeping bag on the floor is no problem.”
Rachel nods. “I guess that’s the way it is, then.”
“I guess.”
They stare at each other and say nothing. Rachel observes him. She knows that something is amiss but cannot put her finger on it. Something to do with that bag of what might have been drugs?
“You’re OK, aren’t you, Pete?” Rachel asks.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“I’m really relying on you,” she says.
“I’m fine. Trust me,” he says.
Pete knows that she knows. It’s time for him to cook up again. He needs it. His body craves it. He had thought he might use this experience as a way to force himself to quit, but it isn’t that simple. There’s a reason it’s called a fix.