Olly looks at these final entries and is not impressed. Erik hadn’t gotten very far with his work. He had no suspects, he hadn’t made the connection to the Jalisco boys, his reasoning was all over the place.
Some of the last few entries are just random words and names.
There are hints about an app he was designing but no indication of what said app was supposed to do.
The very last entry in the book was clearly written very recently—perhaps a few days ago.
It says simply: רחל
It’s a word that means “ewe” in Hebrew.
It’s a word that’s pronounced “Rachel” in English.
Olly sighs and looks out the window.
Marty, Ginger’s new boyfriend, has an ex-wife named Rachel, doesn’t he?
This little family get-together is going to be a lot more interesting than he initially expected. He picks up his phone and texts his sister: Ginger, can you do me a favor and come talk to me when you get a chance?
66
Rachel tries to call Kylie but she can’t get through.
“No signal,” she says. “Thank God she’s safe, though.”
Pete, however, is looking worried. “Shit. Maybe not,” he says.
“What is it?”
“Look at the time stamp on the GPS trace in her sneakers.”
“Oh my God. She’s been at the Adidas store in Boston for nine hours!” Rachel says. “I know what happened. She bought new shoes, threw the old ones out, and forgot about the GPS.”
“How could they have taken her in broad daylight from the mall? It doesn’t make sense,” Pete says.
Rachel is poleaxed.
Her world has been pulled out from under her.
Again.
And this time it’s 100 percent her fault. They had warned her. They told her to leave well enough alone, and she had blundered ahead with this idiotic plan.
She feels sick.
Dizzy.
Nauseous.
She dry-heaves.
The old thoughts: You stupid cow. You stupid bitch. Why didn’t you just die when you had the chance? Everyone would have been better off.
They have taken her beautiful, innocent, wonderful girl.
Her fault.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!
Stupid no more.
She unslings her shotgun. She’ll go in the back door under the balcony. She’ll shoot the lock off if she has to and she’ll kill everyone inside and get her daughter out of there.
She brushes snowflakes off her face and heads for the house.
“Where are you going?” Pete asks.
“To get Kylie.”
“You don’t know what or who is in there,” he says.
“I don’t care. You can stay here, I’m going in,” Rachel says.
Pete grabs her arm. “No. We’ll both go. Wait here for two minutes and I’ll scout ahead.”
“I’m going with you.”
Pete shakes his head. “I’m the expert, Rachel. I did the Marine Corps recon course. I’ve done this kind of thing many, many times.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Just hold on here for two minutes, OK? Let me check it out first.”
“Two minutes?”
“Two minutes. I’ll signal you from under the deck. Wait here.”
Pete knows he should have done this whole thing by himself today. What was he thinking, bringing a cancer patient?
He slithers across the open ground toward the carport under the house. There are five vehicles parked here: a white Mercedes, a red Mustang, two pickup trucks, and a Corolla. That could translate to a lot of people. He goes low past the cars. A security light comes on and he freezes, but no one comes out to investigate and he slowly moves on again. Next to the carport is a drive-in garage and next to that appears to be the front door and the large windows of a lower living room. Pete can’t risk going past those, so he goes back the way he came. He tries the door next to the garage. Locked. The garage door itself, however, is not closed properly. There’s about half an inch of clearance between the bottom of the door and the ground. He lies down on his belly and slides his fingers underneath. If it’s just a buckle in the aluminum, it wouldn’t do them any good, but if it’s a damaged torsion spring…
He puts two hands under the door and tries to lift, and the door gradually begins to rise.
This is how they’ll get in, Marine Corps urban warfare–style. You gain entry, you clear the room, you move to the next room, you work level after level until the house is secured. Unknown number of unfriendlies, but he and Rachel have surprise on their side. He gets to his feet and staggers a little.
Oh no.
He feels dizzy.
His skin’s on fire.
It’s the hunger.
He’s screwed himself this morning. Can’t suddenly start messing around with your fix, you know better than that, Pete.
Soon there will be a million ants crawling up his legs and arms, into his mouth, down his throat…
Stop it! he tells himself. Stop it now!
Hubris to play the hero card. Rachel would be the better scout in these circumstances. Gotta get back, he thinks, and he turns and runs straight into a man holding a shotgun.
“Yeah, I thought I heard something,” the man says.
Pete thinks about a move, but instead of thinking about a move he should have actually moved. Flashlight into the man’s skull. Boot into his knee. Gun butt to face. One guard taken out. But he’s done nothing. Too slow. Too slow not because he’s too old or because he doesn’t have the muscle memory; too slow because he has damaged himself with heroin and oxycodone and every other opiate he has been able to get his hands on.
And now Pete has Rachel’s exact thought: Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid and weak. The man takes a step back and points the shotgun at Pete’s face.
“Drop the flashlight and the gun,” the man says.
Pete drops the flashlight and the nine-millimeter.
“Now, with two fingers, take that forty-five out of your belt and drop it on the ground too.”
Pete takes out his precious .45 ACP and lets it fall into the gathering snowflakes at his feet. Now he feels naked. The ACP had belonged to his grandfather in the U.S. Navy. The old man had fired it in anger once—at a kamikaze ramming his ship at the Battle of Okinawa. It had been Pete’s good-luck charm in Iraq and Afghanistan.
“Shit,” Pete says.
“Yeah, pal, you’re in the shit. Daniel don’t tolerate nobody on his property. And by ‘don’t tolerate,’ I don’t mean he’s gonna turn you over to the local cops. Put your hands on your head.”
Pete puts his hands on his head. “This is all a misunderstanding. I got lost,” he begins, but the man shushes him.
“We’ll see what Daniel has to say about that. He’s got his grandkids with him today. I don’t believe he’ll be right pleased. Kneel on the ground, and keep your hands behind your head.”
The guard kicks him in the back and Pete goes down.
Dirt. Gravel. Snow.
Pete’s mind is racing. He’s trying to think. Nothing comes.
“Now, you just lay down there, boy, you just lay there while I ring the doorbell and bring everybody running.”
67