Stolen (30 page)

I
t all went down. The best-laid plans of mice and men. The MEs, accompanied by a substantial police escort, brought Mr. Oliver Grayson’s body to a cordoned-off section of woodlands near the Boston Police VFW Post in Dorchester. I guess I could have killed somebody there in the predawn dark. A press release went out to the news media shortly thereafter, around 4:30 that morning, six hours before the deadline. “The police have found a body in Dorchester,” the alert read, “another apparent victim of the SHS Killer.” News media descended on the scene the way vultures are drawn to carrion.

Yellow crime-scene tape held the press at bay, though reporters did everything possible to gather information. They pushed and shoved and shouted out questions. “Who is the victim?” “Male or female? Age?” “Any connection to the other victims?” “How did he die?” “Can we see the body?” Police detectives assigned by Higgins to manage the media gave vague answers to the firestorm of questions.

I stood in the background, watching as the events unfolded. Everyone, it seemed, acted with authentic urgency. It looked like controlled chaos. I wasn’t in the briefing room when Higgins and the FBI did all the planning, but if Academy Awards were given out for the most realistic faked murder scene, I’m sure this would have won.

The discovery of a body in Dorchester, and its possible link to the serial killer terrorizing Boston, dominated the morning news and topped headlines on both local and national media outlets. Everyone, Special Agent Brenner included, believed the Fiend would contact me via my cell. He’d done it before. He’d do it again. So I was kept under close supervision. The FBI set up a tech center that could triangulate a cell signal if he did make contact.

An hour passed. And then another. Four hours to go, and still no word.

The tightness in my throat matched that of my stomach. Not a second went by when I wasn’t thinking of Ruby. I wanted to hold her, to feel her touch, feel her body pressed up against mine. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being cursed. King Midas in reverse. Everything I touched turned to poison.

I said my mantra over and over again.
And no matter what it takes, or how far I have to go, I’m not going to let her die.

“It’s like fishing,” Detective Gant said to me, depositing a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of me. “Bait the hook, cast a line, and wait for a bite.”

I ignored Gant’s tasteless analogy by watching the video of Oliver Grayson’s dead body. We took the recording using my iPhone’s camera just after sunrise. Morning dew collected around the head in a crown of beaded water. The sky ignited with streams of pinks and yellows, all the markers of a beautiful day. We wanted the video on my phone in case I had to send it to the Fiend. The illusion had to be complete and perfect. I killed Oliver Grayson. I took a video of the body as the sun poked out over the horizon.

Afterward, the MEs bagged up Grayson—again—and Clegg left to escort them to a funeral home where the body would be cremated. Wailing sirens added authenticity to the departure. I stayed behind, camped out in a conference room at the VFW headquarters, along with a host of other law enforcement types, playing the waiting game.

I watched the video several times. Grayson looked to me like the other victims of the SHS Killer. Poor Oliver had two fingers set on the eyes, two on his waxy lips, and fingers protruding from each bulbous ear. The added blood was ketchup, but on video I couldn’t tell the difference. I didn’t see a cadaver. I saw a dead body, a murder victim. What I saw was my obligation fulfilled.

Three hours to go. Still no word.

A song popped into my head.
The waiting is the hardest part.
Tom Petty. Hadn’t I sung that to Ruby in Dr. Anna Lee’s office? Hadn’t that won me a point in our never-ending game? How prophetic a tune, how true it was.

And then it happened. My phone rang. My first thought was that Gant was right: it was like fishing. I did feel that jolt of adrenaline when a slack line suddenly goes taut. Everybody in the room—Higgins, Gant, Kaminski, Brenner, Agents Bob, Brewer—all tensed as well. I could see it on their faces. They felt the pull on the line, too.

“Shut up! Everybody shut up!” somebody screamed. “Everybody shut the hell up!”

Silence descended like a curtain. Voices went from a murmur to complete quiet in a few breaths. My phone rang again, sounding out the haunting chime of marimbas. I heard Brenner whisper, “Make sure our equipment is a go.” Burner phone or not, I knew that by triangulating the nearest cell phone transmission masts, coupled with cooperation from my cell provider and a lot of sophisticated equipment, they could pinpoint at least a general location of the Fiend.

I answered the call. “This is John.”

“Of course it is,” the Fiend said, his rasp on full display. “How are you, John? How are you feeling? Congratulations. Looks like you’re in the big leagues now.”

My teeth clenched.

“Where is Ruby?” I said.

“Easy, tiger,” said the Fiend. “I still need my proof. I was disappointed the news didn’t showcase my copycat’s handiwork.”

Brenner came over to me, gesturing excitedly for me to keep him talking.

“I have your proof,” I said. “I took video of the body.”

“Good boy. Tell me something. Are you trying to trace this call?”

“Of course not,” I said, hoping the jump of my pulse hadn’t betrayed the lie. “I just want you to release Ruby.”

“Don’t bother trying to trace this. You can’t find me, John.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re a bad liar,” he said. “I thought we worked on that before.”

“Dobson,” I said, remembering my first criminal task.

“Poor fellow,” said the Fiend.

Obviously, he was referring to Dobson.

“What does that mean?” I said, overcome with a sinking feeling.

“Oh, you’ll see.”

“What have you done?”

“Later. What I’d like right now is to see your effort,” he said. “E-mail a copy of the video to [email protected]. Don’t try to trace that, either. Just send the file.”

“Hang on,” I said.

I put the phone on mute.

“He wants me to e-mail him the video of Oliver,” I said to Higgins.

“Do it,” Higgins said.

Brenner said, “We can’t get a trace on this guy. His IP is bouncing all over the place. Are you experiencing any latency on the call?”

“No,” I said. “It’s coming through clear.”

“I don’t know how he’s doing it,” Brenner said, “but the call is definitely going through a proxy server that’s making it impossible to trace.”

“I don’t think you’re going to have better luck with the e-mail address,” I said.

Brenner’s haunted expression seemed to agree.

I e-mailed the video directly from my phone and heard someone talking. Maybe they thought the conversation was over. I turned off the mute button after Brenner had once again silenced the room.

“I sent the video,” I said.

“Good.” Then a pause. Then I heard, “Ohhhh . . . oh, John, lovely work. Was it hard?”

“Was what hard?”

“Taking a man’s life,” the Fiend said. “Did he struggle?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Were his legs kicking? Did he thrash about? He looks so old and frail. Could he put up much of a fight?”

“No,” I said. “He didn’t fight much at all.”

“So, you took out a weakling. Culled the herd, did you?”

“He lived a long time. It was the best of the worst. Now, you promised you’d set Ruby free.”

“Did he froth at the mouth? Did he spit on you as he died?”

I didn’t know how to respond. Did that happen to people who were choked to death? Could they even spit? Was he testing me? I decided he frothed but couldn’t spit. That’s what I told him, anyway.

“Jenna frothed at the mouth, too. Did it make you excited? Are you going to give Ruby a bit of that excitement when you’re reunited?”

“Please,” I said. “Please just let her go.”

“Okay . . . okay. Come and get her, John. She’s at one-fifty-seven Beacon Street in Boston, Apartment Seven-E.”

“You’re just going to let me come and get her?” I said, disbelieving.

“Yes. That was our deal. One murdered person in exchange for one sick wife.”

“I’m coming now.”

“Good. And bring friends if you’d like. I don’t care if an entire armada of police shows up. But I do have one rule. One very specific rule. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is to attempt entry without first getting my permission. If anybody so much as rings the buzzer, she dies. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” I said. “Understood.”

“And, John?”

“Yes?”

“You’re almost a real criminal.”

“What do you mean, almost? I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”

“Yes, you’ve done everything I’ve asked,” the Fiend said, “but I haven’t asked everything you’ll do.”

T
he apartment, situated in an upscale neighborhood of Boston not far from Kenmore Square, was a nicely maintained five-story brownstone fronted by a convex awning with a green cover. Morning sunshine turned the day warm, triggering the scent of blossoms that sweetened the air. Police barricades sectioned off four surrounding city blocks. Helicopters buzzed the skies with the uneven trajectory of flying insects. Police ordered a mandatory evacuation of all residents living in the two adjacent apartment buildings and those directly across the street. Ambulances and fire trucks were called in to assist with the evacuation effort. Most everyone else, it seemed, went to the rooftops to get a bird’s eye view of all the commotion happening at street level.

Clegg drove us to the site and got me acclimated to the massive and awe-inspiring law enforcement response.

“We’ve got SWAT on the rooftops and snipers in pretty much every place with a clear line of sight for a kill shot,” he said. “We’re using infrared thermography to see what’s happening inside the apartment, but I don’t think we’ve picked up anything yet. He could have Ruby in a back room, out of range for our equipment.”

“What now?” I said.

“Now we wait until he calls.”

“I hate the waiting game.”

“Me too,” Clegg said.

Somebody I didn’t know came over and whispered something I couldn’t hear into Clegg’s ear.

“I’ll be right back,” Clegg said, leaving me to join Higgins and Brenner, who were camped out nearby. They exchanged words, with Clegg nodding a lot, and the next thing I knew, Clegg was vanishing within a cloud of SWAT.

News media had been barred from flying in the restricted airspace, but that didn’t stop them from congregating at every barrier. I might have been at the epicenter of this gargantuan calamity, but to them I remained a person unknown. A stranger among law enforcement, dressed in civilian clothes—grimy and disgusting jeans topped by a ripped and faded blue T-shirt. For the Fiend’s benefit, my appearance was that of a man who had just murdered someone and dumped his body in the woods. Whoever I was, I must have looked to the media like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.

Gant came over to me, Kaminski too, both wanting to know how I was holding up.

“I’m hanging in there,” I said, lying. In truth, besides being filthy, I was exhausted, sick, worried, sick with worry, and horrified by what was taking place. “I’m amazed at the size of this operation,” I added, wanting them to know how much I appreciated all the effort.

“We don’t know what’s going to happen,” Gant said. “All we know is that from this guy, you can expect anything.”

Before I could respond, my cell phone rang.

It took a lot of hushing and gesturing to settle everyone down, but soon enough the only sound that could be heard was the helicopter rotors whipping above my head and the ringing of my phone. I answered the call.

“Hi ya, John. Glad you could make it.” That voice—so familiar and still able to chill my soul.

“Where’s Ruby?” I said, my voice cracking.

“She’s inside. I’m not lying to you.”

“Then let me come in and get her.”

“Well, that’s the problem. You see, the game isn’t over yet. You’ve got one more task to perform. One more test of your criminal skills. Being criminal is not just about getting away with it. You have to be able to get in before you can get away. I should warn you, John, you can’t keep your greatest fear locked up forever. The time has come to pick it open.”

“Tell me! Tell me what you want!”

“I’m sorry, John, but I need to talk to the person in charge. Right now. Do it, now.”

Reluctantly, I handed the phone to Higgins. He put the phone to his ear. It took about five seconds for Higgins to develop the look of a seasick mariner. Twenty seconds and I thought he might need oxygen. Forty and he nodded dully. Sixty and he handed the phone back to me, his color nearly gone. There was nobody on the line.

“What’s going on?” I asked him. “What’s happening?”

“Watch,” Higgins said, pointing to the windows of apartment 7E. The curtains blocking the view into the apartment parted. I saw a figure appear—a man, I believed, though sun and glare kept his identity a mystery.

Higgins picked up his bullhorn. “Hold your fire!” he shouted. “Do not, I repeat, do not open fire!”

Higgins’s command must have been radioed around, because I didn’t hear the click of a chamber being loaded. The window lifted, inch by grueling inch.

Who was opening the window? Where was Ruby? Why had Higgins ordered his task force not to fire? What the hell was going on?

The figure inside the apartment stooped to get low, as if preparing to climb out the window and onto the ledge. And then I realized that was exactly what he was doing. Slowly, methodically, the man slid out through the open window, one leg followed by another, hands next, spreading for leverage, torso bending to make room, head poking out to survey his terrifying surroundings. The ledge had to be no more than a foot and a half wide. The man wore something around his body—a vest of some sort with wires sticking out. Carefully the man unfurled his trembling body, rising slowly into a standing position, knees buckling, back pressed up tight against the brick wall.

Now I could see him clearly. Henry Dobson, shaking, stood on the ledge of the building, wearing a vest strapped with what had to be explosives of some sort. He looked like a suicide bomber.

Dobson tossed something from his hand. Keys, attached to a ring, dropped about seventy feet in a second and clattered on the pavement. Four officers pounced on the keys as if they might get up and run away. Higgins was looking through his binoculars when I heard him say to one of his lieutenants, “There’s a lock on the vest. Just like he said.”

That’s when I knew what was coming next. I knew it without a doubt.

And it all made perfect sense to me.