24 Hours (31 page)

She paused by the bathroom door. “Why Costa Rica?”

“No extradition to the U.S.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“I’ve got some land down there. A ranch.”

Hickey looked about as much like a rancher as Redford and Newman had in
Butch Cassidy and the Sun-dance Kid.
For them the pipe dream had been Bolivia. Karen looked over at the clock again, wondering what had become of Will’s efforts to trace Huey’s cell phone. Had it all come to nothing? Or was a host of FBI agents even now preparing to crash into the cabin where Abby was being held?

“Get your ass in gear,” Hickey said. “We’ve got less than an hour.”

She walked into the bathroom, her limbs heavy from truncated sleep. The events of the next few hours had passed beyond her control. Possibly beyond anyone’s. It was like your water breaking at the end of pregnancy. That baby was going to come, and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do to stop it, short of killing you.

Will stood at the sitting room window, wishing for a balcony. The stink of old eggs drifted from the room-service tray Cheryl had ordered. All Will had managed to get down was some tea and a biscuit, but she had eaten a massive breakfast, dubbed the “Natchez Plate” by the Beau Rivage marketing people. He wondered briefly if repeated cycles of Anectine and Restorase had a stimulating effect on the appetite.

The sun was shining full on the water now, turning the brown waves silver in its glare. Hickey’s last check-in call had come three minutes ago—exactly eight o’clock—after which Cheryl had informed Will that they would be leaving for the Biloxi branch of the Magnolia Federal Bank within the hour. Harley Ferris had not yet reported in, but Will still held out hope. CellStar ’s first-string tracing team had reached Hazlehurst at 7:15 A.M., but Hickey had skipped the seven-thirty check-in call making pointless the crew’s hell-for-leather ride from Tunica County. But at least they’d been on station for the 8:00 A.M. call—if Hickey had made one to Huey, and not just to Cheryl.

Any second the phone would ring, and Ferris would tell him one of two things: they had pinpointed Huey’s position, or they had not. If they hadn’t, Will had a decision to make. Should he call the FBI and try to convince them to start a search of the woods around Hazlehurst? Or should he pretend to play out the endgame according to Hickey’s rules, withdraw all the money he could get from Magnolia Federal, give it to Cheryl to keep her cooperating, and be wearing her gun when he came face-to-face with Hickey? After the nightmares of Waco and Ruby Ridge, it was too easy to envision disaster resulting from calling in the FBI. An armed search team might panic Huey into killing Abby, perhaps even unintentionally. But the alternative was hardly more appealing. There was no guarantee that Will and Hickey would ever come face-to-face. Once Hickey knew Cheryl had the ransom, he could simply order his cousin to kill Abby and flee.

The ring of the telephone floated through the spacious sitting room. Will said a silent prayer, then walked over to the end table by the sofa and picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Will, it’s Harley Ferris. We didn’t get it.”

Will stood motionless, not speaking or even thinking, the way some people reacted to the news that an emergency room X ray had turned up lung cancer. As if by not making any move at all they could stop the terrible reality rushing toward them with the implacable indifference of a tidal wave.

“Why not?” he asked. “What happened?”

“The calls are just too short. We’re very close in absolute terms, but we’re talking about undeveloped land. Thick Mississippi woods. Waist-high underbrush. As far as the logging road you mentioned, there are dozens cut through there, all turning back on each other. And there are a hundred shacks in those woods.”

Will could imagine it all too easily: typical Mississippi backcountry.

“Doctor, what we need now is a battalion of national guardsmen to line up shoulder to shoulder and march through those woods. And an FBI Hostage Rescue Team to bring out your little girl after the guardsmen find the place.”

Will put his hand over his eyes. It would take hours to organize that kind of search. Karen would be sending the ransom wire in less than an hour. Abby’s captor would almost certainly leave the cabin before then, to meet Hickey at some prearranged rendevous. Hopefully, he would be taking Abby with him. They might have left already, Will realized, just after Hickey’s last check-in call.

“Doctor?” Ferris prodded.

“I’m thinking.” The only assumption Will felt comfortable making was that Hickey would keep Abby alive until he was sure he had the ransom money. He wanted revenge, but there was no reason to risk losing two hundred thousand dollars when it was an hour from being in his possession. And if he killed Abby too soon, he would lose leverage he might need if Karen or Will balked at the last minute.

Maybe that’s the only card I have left,
Will thought.
Hesitate at every step until I get confirmation that Abby’s alive.
It would be a game of chicken. Hickey could order Huey to hurt Abby in order to force Will to proceed, but he couldn’t tell Huey to kill her. Not if he wanted the money.

“Doctor?” Ferris snapped. “I’ve got to say this. I don’t believe you’re thinking rationally.”

“Keep your tracing team on the job, Harley. I’m going to get them another shot at that trace.”

“How?”

“Just tell them to keep their eyes and ears on their screens.”

“What about the FBI?”

Will ground his teeth and looked out at the gulf. The cool air that had settled over the land during the night was taking on the yellow density of a Mississippi summer morning, as the sun baked it and sent it skyward again.
Skyward . . .

“My God,” he breathed. “Cheryl!”

“What?” Ferris asked.

Cheryl came to the wide door that divided the sitting room of the suite from its bedroom. All she wore was a towel on her head.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“What kind of car does Huey drive?”

“An old pickup truck.”

“What make? What color?”

“Last time I saw it, it was baby-shit brown. Which is green, I guess. With lots of primer on it. It’s one of those old Chevys. You know, with the the rounded cab.”

“Listen to me, Harley. If you’ll make me a promise, you can call the FBI.”

“I’m tired of your conditions. I already regret—”

“She’s my daughter!” Will shouted, blood pounding in his temples. “I’m sorry. You’ve already done more than I had any right to expect. But I’ve just learned what type of vehicle the guy in Hazlehurst is driving. And the sun is up now. If the FBI could get a chopper up over that area, they might be able to find it pretty quick.”

“You’re damn right they could!” Ferris cried. “And if they can’t, the state police can. They can put out a statewide APB for the vehicle, too. If that guy tries to move with your little girl, they’ll be on him like you know what.”

“No state police. Highway patrolmen aren’t anywhere close to trained for something like this. A hostage standoff with a five-year-old? It’s got to be the FBI. A chopper out of Jackson could be on station fifteen minutes after takeoff.” Will was excited, too, but he knew the realities. ER work in small towns had taught him that while helicopters were much faster than ground vehicles, the time required to prep them for flight often meant that conventional ambulance runs were faster, even over distances of eighty or ninety miles. But Ferris’s enthusiasm knew no bounds.

“I’ll handle everything,” he said. “I’m so goddamn relieved. You just leave it to me.”

“The FBI is going to ask you a hundred questions about me. You can’t answer them. That’s my condition. You can’t even give them my name. If you do, they’ll have someone out at my house in ten minutes, and that could get my daughter killed.”

“Damn it—”

“The kidnapper is at my house right now, Harley. He can kill Abby with one phone call. The FBI’s job is to find that vehicle and that cabin. That’s it. In ninety minutes you can tell them all you know, but for now, nothing. Just the vehicle.”

“Jennings—”

“Don’t give them my phone numbers, either. If they called at the wrong time, that could get Abby killed, too. If I think of something that can help them, I’ll call you and you relay it. Understood?”

“I don’t like it. But I understand.”

“Use your head, Harley. Before every step you take, remind yourself that there’s a five-year-old girl out there, scared out of her mind.”

“I’ve got two of my own. College age now, but I remember what it’s like.”

“Good. And tell the FBI to put a paramedic in that chopper. With insulin. My daughter’s a juvenile diabetic.”

“Jesus. Insulin, I’ve got it. Well . . . I’d better make that call. Godspeed, boy.”

“Harley?”

“What?”

“You don’t want to know what kind of vehicle they should be looking for?”

“Shit, I forgot. What is it?”

“A green Chevy pickup with lots of primer on it. The old kind, with rounded cab.”

“Got it. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Will heard the click as Ferris disconnected.

Cheryl was still standing in the door, but at least she had wrapped the towel around her torso. Will saw the bruises on her neck and arm, where he had injected her during the night.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I woke up with the flu,” she said. “My bones ache, and all my muscles are twitching.”

“That’ll pass.”

She cinched the towel tighter around her breasts. “Um . . . there’s something I didn’t tell you.”

A shiver of premonition went through him. “What?”

“This is the last job. Joey’s last kidnapping.”

“He said that?”

“Uh-huh. He’s been talking about it all year. He’s had his money in the stock market a long time, and he bought some land down in Costa Rica. He’s never been there, but he says it’s a ranch. A Spanish ranch. Like zillions of acres with gauchos and stuff. For a while I thought it was, you know, bullshit. But I think maybe it’s real.”

She had held back more than he thought. But this new information only confirmed what Will had thought all along. This kidnapping was different from all the others. Hickey meant to kill Abby—and possibly Karen and himself—then vanish for good.

“You calling in the cops?” Cheryl asked.

“Not exactly.”

“Are we still going to pick up the money?”

“Absolutely. And it’s all yours.”

She looked skeptical. “Once we get it . . . are you going to let me go?”

He ran his hands through his hair. “I need you to bluff Joe a bit longer. Over the phone, you know. Like we have been. Just long enough to get Abby.”

“I’m dead,” she said in a toneless voice.

“No, you’re not. Hang with me, Cheryl.”

She covered her eyes with a shaking hand. Fear and exhaustion had brought her to the point of despair. Will could almost read her mind. In some corner of her brain she was thinking she should pick up the phone and warn Hickey. That if she told him what Will was up to, he might forgive her and call the whole thing off before everything came apart.

“Cheryl, you’ve got to think straight right now. I’m going to do everything I can to help you. If you somehow wind up in police custody, I’ll testify on your behalf. I swear it. But you can’t save Joe. It’s gone past that. I know you still feel loyalty to him. But if you try to warn him, I’ll have no choice but to tell him everything you’ve told me. He’ll know I could only have gotten it from you.”

Her face closed into a bitter mask, like the face of a woman from some impoverished Appalachian hollow. “I’ll tell him you tortured it out of me with those goddamn drugs.”

“If anything spooks Joe now, he’ll tell Huey to kill Abby, and then he’ll run. But you won’t get out of this room. The only place you’ll go will be death row in Parchman. You’ll spend ten years rotting there while you go through all your appeals. Shitty food, no drugs, no life. And then—”

“Shut up, okay? Just shut up!” Tears welled in her red-rimmed eyes. “I see I got no place to go. I never have.”

“But you do. If you can keep it together for another hour, you’ll get enough money to become anybody you want to be. To get free and clear for the first time in your life.”

Cheryl turned and walked back into the bedroom. Before she was out of earshot, Will heard her say, “Nobody’s free and clear, Doc. Nobody.”

Dr. McDill accepted the magnifying glass that Special Agent-in-Charge Zwick offered him and leaned down over the photograph on the desk. It was a black-and-white, high-resolution digital still, captured from videotape shot by a security camera at the Beau Rivage Casino on the previous day. A time/date stamp in the corner read: 16-22:21. 4:22 in the afternoon. That particular camera had been covering one of the blackjack tables at the time. The shooting angle was downward from behind the dealer, which yielded a perfect shot of the blonde in the slinky black dress standing over the king of diamonds and six of hearts.

“Is it her?” Zwick asked.

“No doubt about it.”

McDill put down the magnifying glass and looked back at his wife, who was sitting on Zwick’s sofa with her legs close together. The emotions running through him were intense enough to make his eyes sting. “I was right,” he said. “It’s happening again. Right this minute, another family is going through the same hell we did.” He walked over to Margaret, sat beside her, and took her hand. “We did the right thing. Thank you for coming with me. I know how difficult it was.”

She looked as shell-shocked as a war refugee. He needed to get her home.

“Has Agent Chalmers seen that picture?” he asked. McDill hadn’t seen Chalmers in the past couple of hours. There were so many people moving in and out of the office now that it was hard to keep up with anybody.

“Chalmers is in the field,” Zwick replied. He was already behind his desk, dialing the telephone.

“Oh my God,” McDill cried, slapping his forehead like one of the Three Stooges.

“What is it?” Zwick pressed the phone to his chest.

“I’m scheduled to do a triple bypass in a half hour. My surgical team is probably calling the police right now.”