Gone for Good (28 page)

Nora made an effort to stop me, but she understood. This was something I had to do. Our good-bye kiss was almost too tender. I pulled away. The tears were back in her eyes.

"Come back to me," she said.

I told her I would and hurried out.

The car was a black Ford Taurus with tinted windows.

There was only the driver inside. I did not recognize him. He handed me an eye shade, the kind they give out on airplanes, and told me to put it on and lie flat in the back. I did as he asked. He started up the car and pulled out. I used the time to think. I knew a lot now. Not all. Not enough. But a lot. And I was reasonably sure that the Ghost was right: It would all be over soon.

I ran it through in my mind and here was what I semi-concluded: Eleven years ago, Ken was involved in illegal activities with his old friends, McGuane and the Ghost. There was really no way around that anymore. Ken had done wrong. He might have been a hero to me, but my sister, Melissa, had pointed out that he was drawn to violence. I might amend that to say he craved action, the enticement of the edge. But that's just semantics.

Somewhere along the way, Ken was captured and agreed to help bring down McGuane. He risked his life. He went undercover. He wore a wire. Somehow McGuane and the Ghost found out. Ken ran. He came home, though I'm not sure why. I'm not sure how Julie fit in here either. By all accounts she had not been home in over a year. Was her return a coincidence? Was she there merely following Ken, perhaps as a lover, perhaps because he was her drug source? Did the Ghost follow her, knowing that she would eventually lead him to Ken?

I don't know any of that. Not yet anyhow.

Whatever, the Ghost found them, probably in a delicate moment. He attacked. Ken was injured, but he escaped. Julie was not so lucky. The Ghost wanted to put pressure on Ken, so he framed him for the murder. Terrified that he'd be killed or worse, Ken ran. He picked up his steady girlfriend, Sheila Rogers, and their infant daughter, Carly. The three of them disappeared.

My vision, even through my eye shade, darkened. I heard a whooshing noise. We had entered a tunnel. Could be the Midtown, but my guess was that we were in the Lincoln, heading out toward New Jersey. I thought now about Pistillo and his role in all this. For him, it was the old ends-justify-means debate. Under certain circumstances, he might be a "means" guy, but this case was personal. It was easy to see his point of view. Ken was a crook. He had made a deal and no matter what the reason, he had reneged on it by running. Open season on him. Make him a fugitive and let the world comb through the muck and find his man.

Years pass. Ken and Sheila stay together. Their daughter, Carly, grows. Then one day, Ken is captured. He is brought back to the States, convinced, I imagine, that they'll hang him for the murder of Julie Miller. But the authorities have always known the truth. They don't want him for that. They want the head of the beast. McGuane. And Ken can still help deliver him.

So they strike a deal. Ken hides out in New Mexico. Once they believe it's safe, Sheila and Carly come back from Sweden to stay with him. But McGuane is a powerful nemesis. He learned where they were. He sent two men. Ken wasn't home, but they tortured Sheila to find out where he was. Ken surprises them, kills them, packs his injured lover and daughter in the car, and then he runs again. He warns Nora, who is using Sheila's ID, that the authorities and McGuane are going to be on her tail. She is forced to run too.

That pretty much covered what I knew.

The Ford Taurus came to a stop. I heard the driver shut off the engine. Enough with the passive, I thought. If I had any hope of getting out of this alive, I would have to be more assertive. I pulled the eye shade off and checked my watch. We had been driving for an hour. Then I sat up.

We were in the middle of thick woods. The ground was blanketed with pine needles. The trees were lush and heavy with green. There was a watchtower of sorts, a small aluminum structure that sat on a platform about ten feet off the ground. It looked like an oversize toolshed, built strictly for function. Something both neglected and industrial. Rust licked the corners and door.

The driver turned around. "Get out."

I did as he asked. My eyes stayed on the structure. I saw the door open, and the Ghost stepped out. He was dressed entirely in black, as though he were on his way to reading poetry in the Village. He waved to me.

"Hi, Will."

"Where is she?" I asked.

"Who?"

"Don't start that crap."

The Ghost folded his arms. "My, my," he said, "aren't we just the bravest little soldier?"

"Where is she?"

"You mean Katy Miller?"

"You know I do."

The Ghost nodded. He had something in his hand. A rope of some kind. A lasso maybe. I froze. "She looks so much like her sister, don't you think? How could I resist? I mean, that neck. That beautiful swan neck. Already bruised…"

I tried to keep the quake from my voice. "Where is she?"

He blinked. "She's dead, Will."

My heart sank.

"I grew bored waiting and " He started laughing then. The sound echoed in the stillness, ripping through the air, clawing at the leaves. I stood there, unmoving. He pointed and shouted, "Gotcha! Oh, I'm only joshing, Willie boy. Having a little fun. Katy is just fine." He waved me forward. "Come on and see."

I hurried toward the platform, my heart firmly lodged in my throat. There was a rusted ladder. I climbed it. The Ghost was still laughing. I pushed past him and opened the door to the aluminum shack. I turned to my right.

Katy was there.

The Ghost's laugh was still ringing in my ears. I hurried over to her. Her eyes were open, though several strands of hair blocked them. The bruises on her neck had turned into a jaundiced yellow. Her arms were tied to a chair, but she looked uninjured.

I bent down and pushed the hair away. "Are you okay?"I asked.

"I'm fine."

I could feel the rage building. "Did he hurt you?"

Katy Miller shook her head. Her voice quaked. "What does he want with us?"

"Please let me answer that one."

We turned as the Ghost entered. He kept the door opened. The floor was littered with broken beer bottles. There was an old file cabinet in the corner. A laptop computer sat closed in one corner. Three metal folding chairs, the kind used for school assemblies, were out. Katy sat in one. The Ghost took the second and signaled for me to take the one on his immediate left. I remained standing. The Ghost sighed and stood back up.

"I need your help, Will." He turned toward Katy. "And I thought having Miss Miller here join us, well" he gave me the skin-crawling grin "I thought she might work as something of an incentive."

I squared up. "If you hurt her, if you so much as lay a hand "

The Ghost did not wind up. He did not rear back. He merely snapped his hand from his side and caught me under the chin. He connected with a knife strike. A choking sound blew past my lips. It felt like I'd swallowed my own throat. I staggered and turned away. The Ghost took his time. He bent low and used an uppercut. His knuckles landed flush against my kidney. I dropped to my knees, nearly paralyzed by the blow.

He looked down at me. "Your posturing is getting on my nerves, Willie boy."

I felt close to throwing up.

"We need to contact your brother," he went on. "That's why you're here."

I looked up. "I don't know where he is."

The Ghost slid away from me. He moved behind Katy's chair. He gently, almost too gently, put his hands on her shoulders. She winced at his touch. He reached with both index fingers and stroked the bruises on her neck.

"I'm telling the truth," I said.

"Oh, I believe you," he said.

"So what do you want?"

"I know how to reach Ken."

I was confused. "What?"

"Have you ever seen one of those old movies where the fugitive leaves messages in classified ads?"

"I guess."

The Ghost smiled as though pleased with my response. "Ken is taking that one step further. He uses an Internet newsgroup. More specifically, he leaves and receives messages on something called rec.music.elvis. It is, as you might expect, a board for Elvis fans. So, for example, if his attorney needed to contact him, he would leave a date and time and post with a code name. Ken would then know when to IM said attorney."

"IM?"

"Instant message. I assume you've used it before. It's like a private chat room. Totally untraceable."

"How do you know all this?" I asked.

He smiled again and moved his hands closer to Katy's neck. "Information gathering," he said. "It's something of my forte."

His hands slid off Katy. I realized that I'd been holding my breath. He reached into his pocket and took out the rope lasso again.

"So what do you need me for?" I asked.

"Your brother would not agree to meet his attorney," the Ghost said. "I believe he suspected a trap. We set up another IM appointment, though. We are very much hoping that you can persuade him to meet with us."

"And if I can't?"

He held up the rope. There was a handle attached to the end. "Do you know what this is?"

I did not reply.

"It's a Punjab lasso," he said as if beginning a lecture. "The Thuggees used it. They were known as the silent assassins. From India. Some people think they were all wiped out in the nineteenth century. Others, well, others are not so sure." He looked at Katy and held the primitive weapon up high. "Need I go on here, Will?"

I shook my head. "He'll know it's a trap," I said.

"It's your job to convince him otherwise. If you fail" he looked up, smiling "well, on the positive side, you'll be able to see firsthand how Julie suffered all those years ago."

I could feel the blood leaving my extremities. "You'll kill him, "I said.

"Oh, not necessarily."

I knew it was a lie, but his face was frighteningly sincere.

"Your brother made tapes, gathered incriminating information," he said. "But he has not shown any of it to the feds yet. He's kept it hidden all these years. That's a good thing. It shows cooperation, that he is still the Ken we know and love. And" he stopped, thinking "he has something I want."

"What? "I asked.

He shook me off. "Here's the deal: If he gives it all up and promises to disappear again, we can all go on."

A lie. I knew that. He'll kill Ken. And he'll kill us all. I had no doubt about that. "And if I don't believe you?"

He dropped the lasso around Katy's neck. She let out a small cry. The Ghost smiled and looked straight at me. "Does it really matter?"

I swallowed. "I guess not."

"Guess?"

"I'll cooperate."

He let go of the lasso; it hung from her neck like the most perverse necklace. "Don't touch it," he said. "We have an hour. Spend the time staring at her neck, Will. And imagine."

Fifty-Four.

McGuane had been caught off guard.

He watched the FBI storm inside. He had not foreseen this. Yes, Joshua Ford was important. Yes, his disappearance would raise eyebrows, though they had made Ford call his wife and tell her he'd been called out of town on a "delicate matter." But this forceful a reaction? It seemed like overkill.

No matter. McGuane was always prepared. The blood had been cleaned with a newly developed peroxide agent, so that even a blue-light test would reveal nothing. The hairs and fibers had been taken care of, but even if a few were found, so what? He would not deny that Ford and Cromwell were here. He would happily admit it. He would also admit that they had departed. And he could offer proof: His security people had already replaced the real surveillance tape with the digitally altered one that would show both Ford and Cromwell departing the premises on their own accord.

McGuane pressed a button that automatically erased and reformatted the computer files. Nothing would be found. McGuane automatically backed up via email. Every hour, the computer sent an email to a secret account. The files thus stayed safely in cyberspace. Only McGuane knew the address. He could retrieve the backup whenever he wanted.

He rose and straightened his tie as Pistillo burst through the door with Claudia Fisher and two other agents. Pistillo pointed his weapon at McGuane.

McGuane spread his hands. No fear. Never show fear.

"What a pleasant surprise."

"Where are they?" Pistillo shouted.

"Who?"

"Joshua Ford and Special Agent Raymond Cromwell."

McGuane did not blink. Ah, that explained it. "Are you saying that Mr. Cromwell is a federal agent?"

"I am," Pistillo barked. "Now, where is he?"

"I'd like to file a complaint then."

"What?"

"Agent Cromwell presented himself as an attorney," McGuane went on, his voice even as could be. "I trusted that representation. I confided in him, assuming that I was protected by attorney-client privilege. Now you tell me that he is an undercover agent. I want to make sure that nothing I said is used against me."

Pistillo's face was red. "Where is he, McGuane?"

"I don't have the slightest idea. He left with Mr. Ford."

"What was the nature of your business with them?"

McGuane smiled. "You know better than that, Pistillo. Our meeting would fall under attorney-client privilege."

Pistillo wanted so very much to pull the trigger. He aimed at the center of McGuane's face. McGuane still showed nothing. Pistillo lowered the weapon. "Search the place," he barked. "Box and tag everything. Place him under arrest."

McGuane let them cuff him. He would not tell them about the surveillance tape. Let them find it on their own. It would have that much more impact that way. Still, as the agents dragged him out, he knew that this was not good. He did not mind being brazen as mentioned earlier, this was not the first federal agent he'd had killed but he could not help but wonder if he had missed something, if he had left himself somehow exposed, if, at long last, he had made a crucial mistake that would cost him everything.

The Ghost stepped into the woods, leaving Katy and me alone. I sat in my chair and stared at the lasso around her neck. It was having the desired effect. I would cooperate. I would not risk having that rope tighten around the neck of that frightened girl.

Katy looked at me and said, "He's going to kill us."

It was not a question. It was true, of course, but I still denied it. I promised her that she would be okay, that I would find a way out, but I don't think I assuaged her worries. Little wonder. My throat was feeling better, but my kidney still ached from the punch. My eyes moved about the room.

Think, Will. And think fast.

I knew what was coming up. The Ghost would have me set up the meeting. Once Ken showed up, we were all dead. I thought about that. I would try to warn my brother. I would try to use some kind of code maybe. Our only hope was that Ken would smell a trap and surprise them. But I had to keep my options open. I had to look for a way out, any way out, even if it meant sacrificing myself to save Katy. There would be an opening, a mistake. I had to be ready to exploit it.

Katy whispered, "I know where we are."

I turned to her. "Where?"

"We're in the South Orange Water Reservation," she said. "We used to come here and drink. We're not far from Hobart Gap Road."

"How far? "I asked.

"A mile maybe." "You know the way? I mean, if we make a run for it, would you be able to lead us out?"

"I think so," she said. Then, with a nod: "Yeah. Yeah, I could lead us out."

Okay, good. That was something. Not much maybe, but a start. I looked out the door. The driver leaned against the car. The Ghost stood with his hands behind his back. He bounced on his toes. His gaze was turned upward, as if bird-watching. The driver lit up a cigarette. The Ghost did not move.

I quickly scoured the floor and found what I was looking for a big hunk of broken glass. I peeked out the door again. Neither man was looking. So I crept behind Katy's chair.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

"I'm going to cut you loose."

"Are you out of your mind? If he sees you "

"We have to try something," I said.

"But" Katy stopped. "Even if you cut me free, then what?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "But be ready. There'll be a chance to escape somewhere down the line. We have to take advantage of it."

I pressed the broken edge against the rope and started sawing back and forth. The rope began to fray. The work was slow. I hurried the pace. The rope started giving way, strand by strand.

I was about halfway through the rope when I felt the platform shake. I stopped. Someone was on the ladder. Katy made a whimpering sound. I rolled away from her and made it back to my seat just as the Ghost entered. He looked at me.

"You're out of breath, Willie boy."

I slid the broken glass to the back of my seat, almost sitting on it. The Ghost frowned at me. I said nothing. My pulse raced. The Ghost looked toward Katy. She tried to stare back defiantly. She was so damn brave. But when I looked toward her, the terror struck me again.

The frayed rope was in plain sight.

The Ghost narrowed his eyes.

"Hey, let's get on with this," I said.

It was enough of a distraction. The Ghost turned to me. Katy adjusted her hands, giving the frayed rope some cover. Not much if he looked closely. But maybe enough. The Ghost waited a beat and then he went for the laptop. For a second for the briefest of seconds he turned his back to me.

Now, I thought.

I would jump up, use the broken glass like a prison shiv, and jam it into the Ghost's neck. I calculated quickly. Was I too far away? Probably. And what about the driver? Was he armed? Did I dare?

The Ghost spun back toward me. The moment, if there had ever been one, was over.

The computer was already on. The Ghost did some typing. He got online with a remote modem. He clacked some more keys and a text box appeared. He smiled at me and said, "It's.time to talk to Ken."

My stomach knotted. The Ghost hit the return button. On the screen, I saw what he had typed:

YOU THERE?

We waited. The answer came a moment later.

HERE.

The Ghost smiled. "Ah, Ken." He typed some more and hit the return.

IT'S WILL. I'M WITH FORD.

There was a long pause.

TELL ME THE NAME OF THE FIRST GIRL YOU MADE OUT WITH.

The Ghost turned to me. "As I expected, he wants proof it's really you."

I said nothing, but my mind raced.

"I know what you're thinking," he went on. "You want to warn him. You want to tell him an answer that's close to the truth." He moved over to Katy. He picked up the stick end of the lasso. He pulled just a little. The rope coiled against her neck.

"Here's the deal, Will. I want you to stand up. I want you to go over to the computer and type in the correct answer. I'll keep tightening the rope. If you play any games if I even suspect you tried to play any sort of game I won't stop until she's dead. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

He tightened the lasso a little more. Katy made a noise. "Go," he said.

I hurried to the screen. Fear numbed my brain. He was right. I had been trying to come up with a decent lie, something to warn him. But I couldn't. Not now. I put my fingers on the keys and typed:

CINDI SHAPIRO

The Ghost smiled. "For real? Man, she was a little hot tie Will. I'm impressed."

He let go of the lasso. Katy released a gasp. He moved back over to the keyboard. I looked back over at my chair. The broken glass was in plain view. I moved quickly back to my seat. We waited for the response.

GO HOME, WILL.

The Ghost rubbed his face. "Interesting response," he said. He thought about it. "Where did you make out with her?"

"What?"

"Cindi Shapiro. Were you at her house, your house, where?"

"Eric Frankel's bar mitzvah."

"Does Ken know that?"

"Yes."

The Ghost smiled. He typed again.

YOU TESTED ME. NOW IT'S YOUR TURN. WHERE DID I MAKE OUT WITH CINDI?

Another long pause. I was on the edge of my seat too. It was a smart move by the Ghost, turning the momentum around a bit. But more important, we really didn't know if this was Ken or not. This answer would prove it one way or another.

Thirty seconds passed. Then:

GO HOME, WILL.

The Ghost typed some more.

I NEED TO KNOW IT'S YOU.

A longer pause. And then finally:

FRANK EL BAR MITZVAH. GO HOME NOW.

Another jolt. It was Ken……

I looked over at Katy. Her eyes met mine. The Ghost typed again.

WE NEED TO MEET.

The answer came fast: NO CAN DO.

PLEASE. IMPORTANT.

GO HOME, WILL. NOT SAFE.

WHERE R U?

HOW DID YOU FIND FORD?

"Hmm," the Ghost said. He thought about that and typed: PISTIL LO

There was another long pause.

I HEARD ABOUT MOM. WAS IT VERY BAD?

The Ghost did not consult me for this one. YES.

HOWS DAD?

NOT GOOD. WE NEED TO SEE YOU.

Another pause: NO CAN DO.

WE CAN HELP YOU.

BETTER TO STAY AWAY.

The Ghost looked at me. "Should we try to tempt him with his favorite vice?"

I had no idea what he meant, but I watched him type and hit the return key:

WE CAN GET YOU MONEY. DO YOU NEED SOME?

I WILL. BUT WE CAN DO IT THRU OVERSEAS TRANSFERS.

And then, as if reading my mind, the Ghost typed:

I REALLY NEED TO SEE YOU. PLEASE.

I LOVE YOU, WILL. GO HOME.

Again, as if he were inside my head, the Ghost typed:

WAIT.

SIGNING OFF NOW, BRO. DON'T WORRY.

The Ghost let out a deep breath. "This isn't working," he said out loud. He typed quickly.

SIGN OFF, KEN, AND YOUR BROTHER DIES.

A pause. Then: WHO IS THIS?

The Ghost smiled. ONE GUESS. HINT: CASPER THE FRIENDLY.

No pause this time.

LEAVE HIM ALONE, JOHN.

I THINK NOT.

HE HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS.

YOU KNOW BETTER THAN TO PLAY WITH MY SYMPATHIES. YOU SHOW UP, YOU GIVE ME WHAT I WANT, I DON'T KILL HIM.

LET HIM GO FIRST. THEN I'LL GIVE YOU WHAT YOU WANT.

The Ghost laughed and clacked the keys:

OH PLEASE. THE YARD, KEN. YOU REMEMBER THE YARD, DON'T YOU. I'LL GIVE YOU THREE HOURS TO GET THERE.

IMPOSSIBLE. I'M NOT EVEN ON THE EAST COAST.

The Ghost muttered, "Bull." Then he typed frantically:

THEN YOU BETTER HURRY. THREE HOURS. IF YOU'RE NOT THERE, I CUT OFF A FINGER. I CUT OFF ANOTHER EVERY HALF HOUR. THEN I GO TO THE TOES.

THEN I GET CREATIVE. THE YARD, KEN. THREE HOURS.

The Ghost disconnected the line. He slammed the laptop closed and stood.

"Well," he said with the smile, "I think that went rather well, don't you?"