Among Thieves (35 page)

“How?”

“Paint chips and dated photographs. The photographs could be doctored, but the paint chips can be tested to provide a reasonable
degree of certainty. It looks as though the offer was genuine.”

“So these people are going to buy the art back?” Finn asked.

Porter laughed. “Hardly. They have no more to pay. Besides, if our theories are right, Kilbranish was involved in the original
theft. He would view the paintings as rightfully his. He’s here to bring the paintings back his own way.”

There was silence for a moment. Finn wished there were windows in the conference room; he felt as though the walls were closing
in on him.

“Let me be very clear, Mr. Finn: if your client helped Kilbranish rob the Gardner, and Kilbranish doesn’t have the paintings
now, your client is a dead man. You know what he did to Murphy and Ballick. He’ll do the same to your client. Of course, you
already know that, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. He needs to come in. We can help him.”

Finn thought about Sally in the hands of the man Porter was describing. It made him feel sick. “He can’t come in.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Finn said.

“If he’s worried about being prosecuted for the robbery, I’m sure we can work something out on that. Particularly if the paintings
are recovered.” Porter was practically drooling, and Finn saw Hewitt shoot a questioning look toward him.

“It’s not that,” Finn said. “Although some sort of an agreement that he wouldn’t be prosecuted would be needed. There are
other considerations, though.”

“Like what?” Porter demanded. “If he doesn’t come in, he’ll be dead in a matter of days. It’s that simple.”

“I wish it was that simple.” Finn took out a card and handed it to him. “Let me think about it and we may be back in touch.”

Porter reached into his jacket and pulled out two cards of his own. He handed Finn and Kozlowski each one. “I hope you will
be.” He walked over to the door and opened it for them. Just as they got to the door, though, he closed it slightly, blocking
their path. “There is one thing you should explain to your hypothetical client, Mr. Finn,” he said. “If he does not come forward,
and we find him… all bets are off. I have no doubt in those circumstances that the Justice Department will bring its full
weight to bear on him and anyone else involved.”

Finn looked at Porter. When they stood next to each other the size difference was striking, and yet the FBI agent no longer
seemed small. There was an intensity to him that was intimidating. “I understand, Agent Porter. I’ll keep that in mind.”

She had known fear before. It had been a constant companion of hers; like a shadow that faded from time to time, but was always
present. She had never known fear like this, though.

The basement was dark. She could feel the mold and mildew surrounding her. On her skin; in her hair; in her nose; growing
all around her, choking off her air. It gave her panic a physical presence, and she tried unsuccessfully to put it out of
her consciousness.

She had to focus. The one thing that had kept her alive through her short and difficult life was her ability to keep her head,
even as everything around her was falling apart. She needed that strength now, but every time she tried to take a deep breath
to settle herself, the stench of decay invaded her lungs, carrying with it a new wave of terror.

She looked around the basement. It was difficult; her arms were strapped together with duct tape and she was lying on her
side on the stone floor carved from the bedrock. Every time she turned, the tape ripped at her skin, sending flashes of pain
up her arms. She was secured to a pipe in the corner of the basement, prevented from repositioning herself. But with some
effort and pain she was able to turn enough on her back so that she could see the place in its macabre entirety.

It was little more than a glorified crawl space, perhaps five feet high. Above her the floor joists were visible, with ancient,
fraying strips of insulation tucked into the gaps. In many places the moisture had eaten its way through the strips, and yellow-brown
strands of matted fiberglass hung in frozen drips, like toxic stalactites. There was a furnace in the corner, covered in rust
and oil residue, with its piping reaching up toward the rest of the house, like tentacles grasping for freedom.

She heard the door open and the footsteps on the stairs, and strained even further to get a better look. The man descended
slowly, the rotted wooden planks on the ancient stairs creaking painfully with each step. He’d said little to her in the car,
making clear only that if she shouted or tried to get away he would kill her.

When they’d arrived at the little house, he’d reiterated his threat and told her to walk in front of him to the door. He pushed
her into the house and forced her quickly into the basement, which he’d prepared for her arrival. Other than telling her to
lie down, he said nothing while he tied her down. He used a last strip of duct tape to seal her mouth.

Now he reached the bottom of the staircase and bent slightly to avoid bumping his head on the flooring above. Moving toward
her, he picked up a small crate and brought it over, putting it down next to her head and sitting down. He looked at her for
what seemed like a long time, saying nothing. She looked back, searching his face for some sign of pity or compassion. She
saw none.

The gun he’d held from the moment he’d grabbed her was still in his hand, and he placed it on the ground next to him, the
barrel pointing at the back of her head. He reached out and pried loose a corner of the tape that covered her mouth. He gave
a hard and fast pull, ripping it from her face. She gave a short, involuntary cry, and he picked up the gun again, holding
it over her. She choked back tears.

There was an air of expectation to his demeanor, as if he was waiting for her to say something. If so, she was determined
that he be disappointed. In spite of her fear, she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of showing weakness. After a moment
he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bottle of water. He twisted the cap off and moved the bottle at an angle
toward her, holding it up to her lips. “Open,” he said.

She opened her mouth and he tipped the bottle up, letting the water run down toward her. It was awkward, and most of the water
ran down over her cheek, splattering on the floor. It was cold, though, and her mouth was thick with fear. The water tasted
good, and she lapped at it, swallowing hard to get as much as she could.

He took the bottle away and reached into his pocket again, this time pulling out a cereal bar. He unwrapped it and dangled
it in front of her mouth, lowering it so that she could take a bite. “Eat,” he said.

She did. When she had finished the cereal bar, he put the water bottle and the wrapper from the cereal bar into his pocket.
“Do you have to use the bathroom?”

She hadn’t even thought of it until that moment; she’d been too scared. “Yes,” she replied.

He pulled a long knife out of a sheath hanging from his belt and cut the tape that was wrapped around her wrists and the pipe
to which she was attached. It left her arms taped together, but she was free from the ground, at least. She sat up awkwardly.
“Where?” she asked.

He pointed to a corner of the basement. A blanket was draped over a rope tied to the ceiling. It provided little privacy.
“There’s a can behind there,” he said.

“Can I use the bathroom upstairs?”

He shook his head.

She could feel the tears running down her cheeks as she moved over to the corner, but she brushed them away. Once she was
done, she stepped from behind the blanket. He hadn’t moved.

“Lie back down,” he said.

He wrapped the duct tape around her wrists, securing them again to the pipe coming up from the floor. Then he tore off another
strip just long enough to cover her mouth.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “I’ll be quiet.”

He shook his head. “Close your mouth.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Close your mouth.”

“What do you want?”

He reached forward and pasted the tape hard to her face. “Nothing you can give me,” he said. Then he stood and walked to the
staircase, stooped over to avoid the ceiling. The steps groaned as he walked up toward the light from the floor above. It
seemed to Sally that the noise was even louder than when he had come down. Then the door closed, and the basement was dark
again. She pulled at the tape, just to make sure that there wasn’t any chance that he’d been sloppy and left enough give for
her to pull free. He hadn’t, though, and the tape pulled painfully at her skin again.

She put her head down, resting it on the dirty concrete in the puddle that had formed from the water that had spilled from
her lips. The tears came freely at last, dripping off the side of her face and mixing with the water on the floor. She wasn’t
much for self-pity, and yet there was a point at which even she couldn’t bear any more. She wondered whether she had reached
that point.

Sean Broadark was sitting on a stool in the kitchen when Kilbranish came up. It was the first time Liam could remember the
man coming off the sofa in the living room.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Broadark asked him. Liam had never heard the man express anger before. Anger wasn’t
a soldier’s emotion. It clouded a soldier’s thinking. It was a bad sign.

“I’m getting the paintings back,” Liam replied. He moved past the man and into the living room.

“This was never part of the deal,” Broadark said, following him. “I never agreed to this.”

Liam stopped and turned, facing Broadark. He squinted at the other man, so close to him that the pits on his face looked like
lunar craters. Liam wondered which of them had lost the greater degree of sanity. He supposed it didn’t really matter. “You
didn’t agree to what, Sean?”

“Kidnapping,” Broadark replied. “The taking of innocents.”

“Innocents?” Liam laughed. “Those are high-minded principles for you to be expressing, friend. Have you never killed children?”

Broadark’s face twitched with rage. “Only when necessary, and never on purpose.”

“Not exactly an altar boy’s motto, is it?”

“I am serious, mate,” Broadark said. “No one approved this. I won’t be a part of it. I was sent to help you, but not in this.”

“I didn’t ask for your help. Just don’t get in my way.”

“That decision isn’t mine. I’m calling this in.”

“Fine,” Liam said. “Do you really think that anyone is going to give up a chance at this kind of money for one girl? If that
was the case, the cause never would have carried on for this long. Don’t you understand? These paintings are our lifeblood.
They’re our last chance.” Liam moved back into the kitchen.

Broadark stood there for a moment. Then he pulled out his cell phone. “The decision’s not mine to make,” he said. He started
walking toward the front door.

Liam moved after him. “Okay,” he said in an even voice. “Make the call.” Even as he spoke, though, he was pulling his knife
out of its sheath. He came up on Broadark from behind quickly. At the last moment, Broadark realized his mistake, and he began
to turn. It was too late, though. Liam swung his arm over Broadark’s shoulder and drove the knife hard through the rib cage.
Broadark stumbled and fell forward. Liam could see the man’s hand searching for his gun, and he dropped to one knee behind
him, grabbing him by the forehead and pulling his head back, exposing his neck. “I warned you,” he said. Then he pulled the
knife across Broadark’s throat. The cut was deep and effective, and whatever life was left in Broadark’s body deserted it
instantly. He fell heavily on his face, his arms splayed out to the side. Liam quickly rolled him on his back and stabbed
him once more in the chest to make sure that the heart was stopped. With the body in that position and no further heartbeat,
it would limit the amount of blood that he would have to clean.

Liam stood up and took a deep breath. He walked over to the sink and ran some cold water, sliding the knife under the flow,
watching as it turned from deep red to pink as the blood was washed down. Then he turned and looked at Broadark’s body. There
was nothing to be done about it, he told himself. He was committed. His only option now was success.

“Do you think he’ll come in?”

Porter was standing in the doorway to Hewitt’s office. Hewitt looked up from his work. “Finn’s client? Maybe. He’s making
a mistake if he doesn’t. I’ve been reading up on our friend Mr. Kilbranish. I wouldn’t want this man after me.”

“No,” Porter agreed. “Nor would I. I don’t understand why they didn’t jump at the idea.”

“Particularly with you offering pardons you didn’t have any authority to offer.”

Porter shrugged. “I just said we could work something out. I didn’t make any firm offer of immunity.”

“You came close. And that was certainly the impression you gave them.”