Taken (26 page)

S
hane is waiting to greet me on the other side. “Hi, Kate,” he says in a husky voice. “Welcome back.”

How strange is this? I’m thinking. If anybody’s waiting to greet me it should be Ted. I’ve only known Randall Shane for a few days and it’s not like I’ve fallen in love with him, right? Not possible, too many important things on my mind, although I can’t seem to recall what, exactly. So what’s Shane doing here—wherever “here” is? And then I feel the gurney under me and background noise of life in tumult and the first word out of my mouth is
Tommy.

“You should rest,” Shane advises, patting my hand. “You had a collapsed lung.”

“What about Tommy?”

The world slowly comes into focus. Doctors and cops rushing around, and a couple of suits that could be state police detectives or FBI agents, all of whom seem to be studiously ignoring me. So what’s new? Waiting at the end of the gurney, Connie and Sherona are giving me little encouraging waves. Deferring to Shane, apparently.

“It’s amazing what medical science can do,” Shane tells me, ignoring my question. “They put a tube down your throat and inflated your lung like a balloon. They tell me collapsed lungs are common in front-end collisions.”

Shane, with a huge chunk of white gauze taped to his head and two black eyes that make him look like a mournful raccoon.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” I say. “We were too late. Tommy’s already dead.”

Shane grimaces and keeps patting my hand, as if not sure what to do, or how to respond. He glances at Connie, who bursts into tears and then throws herself on me.

“Hey!” Shane exclaims, backing away. “Careful!”

“Terrible,” Connie mumbles, embracing me. “Just terrible.”

“I want to see him,” I say, forcing myself up from the gurney. Woozy but able to breathe, more or less. No tears. I feel frozen emotionally, unable to react. “Take me to Tommy.”

As the world reorients itself around me, it becomes obvious that I’ve been lying on a gurney outside the clinic O.R. Apparently I stumbled through the doors just before passing out, and the attending surgeon quickly determined what was wrong and fixed it. Whether or not he saved my life is questionable, as a single collapsed lung is not usually fatal, at least in the short run. Everybody keeps assuring me I’ll be fine.

“Where is he?” I demand.

Shane thinks I mean Cutter, the man in the mask. “He got away. We don’t know how, exactly, with all these cops and agents converging on the place. They’re conducting a thorough search of the building and grounds, but he’s gone.”

The figure in the green surgical scrubs.

“I saw him in the hallway,” I tell them as it all comes flooding back. “Said he was a nurse. It was him. I couldn’t focus, but it had to be him. He took the ambulance. That was the siren.”

“You have to tell the agents about this,” Shane advises.

“After I see my son.”

Frankly, it no longer matters to me, what happens to the man in the mask. Arresting him won’t bring Tommy back. I simply don’t care about him, one way or another.

Shane and Sherona are guiding me down the hall, shielding me from the harried cops, who look grim and impatient and much too busy to bother with the emotional needs of mere civilians. Connie hovers fretfully, tears freely streaming down her narrow face, dripping from her chin.

“Did they do it?” I want to know. “Did they save the other boy?”

“You stopped ’em,” Sherona says. “Hit the building, all the bells went off, they stopped whatever it is they were doing. Right after is when he started shooting.”

“Shooting?” I vaguely recall thinking about fireworks.

“One of the doctors, he’s been gut shot. Guess what happened, he tried to stop the man from running away.”

It’s all too complicated. My entire being is focused upon one simple goal. See Tommy, hold him in my arms, tell him how sorry I am that I wasn’t able to save him.

After that, I couldn’t care less.

They’re guiding me into a small recovery room when Shane says, “Kate? There’s something you need to know before you go in there.” He hesitates, looks helpless. “Something that needs to be clear.”

I’m in no mood for this, for trying to shield my feelings. I haven’t got any feelings so there’s nothing to protect. “Just tell me, Randall. Quickly.”

“Your son is brain dead.”

“Of course he’s brain dead,” I say angrily. “They took his heart.”

“No,” says Shane, holding me back from the room. “No, no, his heart is still beating. He’s breathing on his own, too. But the nurses just gave him a brain scan. There has been terrible damage, quite recent. Nothing anybody can do to bring him back. He’s gone, Kate, I’m so sorry.”

I wrench my arms away from Shane and run into the room. Smells faintly of disinfectant. Stark lights glinting off tile floor and walls. In the center of my vision, a gurney. And lying on the gurney, a small figure with his head carefully balanced on a special supportive pillow. Not moving, not reacting. Not dead, exactly, but not fully alive, either.

I fall to the floor, weeping. Ashamed of myself.

Connie hugs me from behind. “Oh, Kate. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t understand,” I bleat.

“I know, I know.”

“That’s not Tommy,” I explain, dragging myself to my feet, and Connie with me.

Shame on me, but I’m crying tears of joy.

“I don’t understand,” says Dr. DeMillo, looking perplexed.

A vain-looking man with a very expensive hair weave and beautifully capped teeth, DeMillo is one of the clinic partners. A surgical specialist in diseases of the liver and kidneys, he had been preparing to assist Dr. Munk with the hastily scheduled heart transplant, and apparently still believes the recipient was somehow related to a Very Important Person in the State Department. Whatever that might mean. I’m having trouble keeping all the partners straight—there are five at the clinic—but I’m aware that a Dr. Stanley Munk was the one who was shot, and who evidently had some sort of prior relationship with Stephen Cutter. The fact that Munk is expected to survive is apparently due entirely to DeMillo, who performed emergency surgery to repair an artery torn by a bullet fragment.

“Stan said one boy was breathing on his own and the other was on the respirator. That they had run a preliminary scan and one had recently suffered irreversible brain damage. Gone from vegetative to brain dead. I naturally assumed it was the donor. Neither patient had been prepped. The nurse accompanying the brain-dead boy was very upset. It’s been so confusing. We just assumed that—”

“Doesn’t matter,” I interrupt, waving him off. “Let me guess, the donor, the boy on the respirator, he was still in the ambulance?”

DeMillo looks started. “As a matter of fact, yes. We were on our way to bring him into the building for evaluation when the explosion happened. I mean the car crash. I thought it was an explosion. Sorry, I guess that was you.”

Ignoring DeMillo, I turn to Shane and give his arm a squeeze. “Get it?” I ask. “Do you see what happened?”

“Yes,” he says. “Cutter still has Tommy.”

“I let him walk right by me. And before, when Connie and I first got here, I was standing right next to the ambulance while Tommy was inside.”

Can’t believe I was so stupid. Why hadn’t I thought to look in the ambulance? Why had I assumed Tommy was already in the building?

“Where are you going?” Shane asks, hurrying to catch up.

“I think I know where he’s headed,” I tell him. “How long was I out?”

“Not sure exactly,” he says, consulting his watch. Squints as if he’s having trouble seeing with his trauma-blackened eyes. “I got here almost exactly when the crap hit the fan. Or rather when you hit the building. You were unconscious for an hour or so, is my best guess. They had to sedate you to get the tube down your throat.”

“Sherona! Do me a favor?”

“If I can.”

“Find out if there’s anyone here who can fly that helicopter. Be nice, and if that doesn’t work, threaten to sue. Got it?”

Sherona grins. “Yes, ma’am,” she says. “Get you a flyboy.”

M
y idea of transportation involves wheels on the road, or the rails. To my way of thinking, flying is about as glamorous as falling. Both involve speed, fear and the uncertainty of a sudden stop. When Ted surprised me with a three-day getaway for our first anniversary he learned the hard way that “small aircraft” and “Kate Bickford” should never appear in the same sentence. The flight down to Fort Lauderdale was okay—I was determined to make it okay—mostly because if you try really hard, you can pretend that a 757 is a big fat train compartment in the sky. It’s important never to look out the window, and if the ride gets bumpy, think of frost-heaves on the road. Plus, I was deliriously pleased that my handsome husband hadn’t forgotten after all, that his baffled looks in the preceding days were feigned. At the time we were basically broke, paying off school loans and a car payment, so our destination wasn’t exactly a five-star resort, but it was in the Caribbean, so who cared? Palm trees, steel drums, reggae in the moonlight—until Ted gently informed me that steel drums and reggae were Jamaica and we were heading for the Bahamas, a scant fifty miles off the coast of Florida.

I didn’t care where we were going as long as we were going there together, and I was so impressed with his ability to surprise me that at first I thought the little airplane in Fort Lauderdale was part of the joke. You’re kidding, right? That’s not the real thing, it’s a model airplane! Ha, ha, ha.
No, it’s a six-seater Cessna, honey, and the flight takes less than thirty minutes. As soon as we take off you’ll be able to see our destination. It’ll be fun, all part of the adventure.

Flying in the clinic’s helicopter—a Bell 407 EMS, whatever that is—makes the Bahamas flight seem like a bike ride to the end of the block. My first helicopter experience and, I hope, my last. Can’t get airsick because to be sick you have to have a stomach and mine has been left somewhere far below. We’re crossing a swath of Connecticut at a hundred and fifty miles per hour and the roar of the Rolls-Royce turbine is so loud you have to wear shielded headphones.

Shane is in the jump seat behind me. I hate that they call it a jump seat, but his voice in the headphones is totally calm.

“The local police have been dispatched,” he tells me. “The SWAT team won’t deploy until the situation is accessed. They’ve been informed that the suspect has your son, and that any police presence may set him off.”

“What does it mean ‘until the situation is accessed’?”

“Means they’ll keep out of sight until told otherwise. Nobody wants a hostage situation, Kate. That much is clear.”

At the moment I’ve lost all faith in the ability of the authorities to deal with the man in the mask. I know he’s got a real name, but I can’t seem to lock onto it—he’s still the man in the mask to me. Ski masks, surgical masks, whatever it takes, he’s got a way of making himself invisible when necessary. He managed to slip away from about fifty cops and agents converging on the clinic, all because nobody thought to stop an ambulance with emergency lights flashing. So the idea of a SWAT team doesn’t exactly thrill me. Anxious snipers, a gun battle, hostages down, it all adds up to a nightmare.

Sherona and Connie have been left behind in Scarsdale, not required on this part of the mission, and to be truthful neither seemed all that thrilled about a helicopter flight anyhow. Maria Savalo has promised to rendezvous with us on the ground as soon as she can get there, to handle any legal problems that may arise. My indictment will surely be dropped as they develop new evidence with a new suspect, but I’m not out of the woods yet. Apparently an understanding of what actually happened will take a while to seep into the various bureaucracies, from the Fairfax P.D. to the state prosecutor’s office. I’m no longer killer mom but remain a “person of interest,” whatever that means.

Considering the time of day, we’d be at least two hours away by car, crawling in morning traffic around the urban centers. As the crow flies—or rather as the Bell 407 flies—we’re less than forty minutes from our destination. A rough calculation means there’s a chance we’ll arrive before he does, even though he had a ninety-minute head start. That’s what I’m praying for, to be there when he arrives, before he has a chance to set up whatever sick scenario he has in mind.

The state cops are on the lookout for the stolen ambulance, but my own feeling is, he’ll have new wheels. Something faster, more maneuverable. Van or a pickup. Maybe a station wagon with tinted windows. Whatever he needs to blend in while transporting Tommy to the scene of the standoff. Because that’s where all of this is heading, now that his cover has been blown, his identity shared with every law enforcement agency in the Northeast. As a military man he’ll understand about snipers, he’ll have made preparations. Spider-holes, tunnels, who the hell knows what has taken shape in his sick and desperate imagination?

One thing I know for sure: A man willing to steal a heart from a living boy is capable of anything.

As for Randall Shane, he worries me. The man should be in a hospital bed, under observation, but he insisted on signing himself out, and now he insists on accompanying me. Says he’s fine, no problem, but his eyes have a funny way of going out of focus, and when he walks he looks like a deep-sea diver maneuvering in lead boots.

In my headphones his husky voice says, “You’re convinced he’ll go home. Was it something he said?”

“No. His wife. He left her locked up in the house—or that’s what he thinks. Besides, where else can he go?”

The question is rhetorical, of course. There’s no correct answer, just a gut feeling, and obviously my gut feelings are far from infallible.

As we approach New London, Shane begins to confer with the pilot about strategies for approach. The navigational equipment can direct us to a street address, but it’s not like he can land the thing on a rooftop. Maybe in the movies. In reality there are radio towers and poles and power lines and crosswinds to be taken into account—a wide-open space is required. Plus, if we land too close, the sound of the helicopter will give us away.

“How about there?” Shane asks, pointing. “Would that work?”

“Baseball field,” the pilot says. “Perfect.”

And then the bottom drops out and we’re plummeting. Feels like we must be crashing but the pilot seems calm, so I stifle the shriek in my throat and concentrate on not throwing up. At the last moment we slow down, rising slightly—my stomach suddenly finds me—and then, with a slight bump, we’re down.

Shaking like a leaf, I unbuckle the harness, take Shane’s outstretched hand, and find myself standing in the outfield grass. The ground seems to be moving and Shane has to grab hold to keep me from falling down.

“Take it easy!” Shane shouts as the turbo winds down.

He’s a little rocky himself, and in the end we hold each other up while the pilot grins and shakes his head—amateurs.

“This is a Little League field,” I tell Shane. “I bet he played here.”

“Who?”

“The other boy. Tommy’s brother.”

Spooks me out, thinking about it, so I shove it out of my mind and concentrate on the mission at hand. The authorities are under the impression that I’ll be standing by in case there are hostage negotiations, but that’s not what I have in mind. I intend to be waiting in Lyla’s kitchen when her husband comes marching home. Knowing I can’t be dissuaded, Shane wants to be there, too.

“Which way?” I ask a bit too loudly, my ears still ringing from the helicopter noise.

“Three blocks east.” Shane takes my arm, supposedly to guide me but really to steady himself.

If I knew the Vulcan nerve pinch I’d render him unconscious, leave him sleeping safe and peaceful on the outfield grass. Then again, he’s probably thinking the same about me, although to my way of thinking a collapsed lung isn’t half as serious as a concussion. The cracked ribs hurt like hell, but it’s only physical pain. Nothing compared to the yawning emptiness I’ve been fighting ever since learning that I’d been within a few feet of my son—right there in the ambulance, you fool!—and that I might have blown my last good chance.

Please be alive.
That’s my three-word prayer, my mantra, the faint chorus of hope that keeps me going.

We’re on an ordinary sidewalk, the kind with cracks that will break your mother’s back, but the concrete feels spongy under my feet. Shane isn’t faring much better—no words of complaint, but every move is a wince of pain. An observer might suppose we’re an elderly couple shuffling along on our morning walk, holding each other up. The holding-each-other-up part is true enough, and our progress seems agonizingly slow. I suppose we’re moving at a more or less normal rate, but to me it feels like we’re struggling every step of the way. Running in slow motion through deep sand with a tidal wave poised to crash over us.

Three blocks, but it feels like a journey to the end of the earth. At last the trim little house with the white picket fence comes into view. No vehicle in the street or driveway. Looks like we’re going to make it before Papa Bear comes home.

“Don’t turn your head,” Shane cautions. “Can you see that hedge?”

He means the hedge at the other end of the block. I squint, and bring into focus the figure of a man in a blue flak jacket, crouching behind the hedge.

“They’re covering the house from both sides,” Shane says.

When we’re about a hundred feet from the house, the commander of the local SWAT unit steps out from behind a tree and tries to wave us off.

“Do they know who I am?” I ask Shane.

“Not sure,” he says. “They might. Or they might think we’re from the neighborhood.”

“Will they shoot us?”

He shrugs. “I seriously doubt it.”

“Good enough for me,” I say, and steer him around the picket fence, into the yard.

All the curtains are drawn. The house looks sleepy somehow, as if waiting for something, or someone, to wake it up.

“What’s your plan?” he wants to know, keeping his voice low.

“Get in the house.”

“Yeah, but how?”

“Around the back,” I say. “There’s a bulkhead door.”

Behind the adjacent home, barely in our line of sight, men in camouflage gear have assembled, sniper rifles at the ready. More furious arms wave, trying to warn us off. We studiously ignore them and proceed to the bulkhead. It’s not fair to these brave and dutiful men, but I can’t help thinking about the SWAT unit at Columbine, waiting until all the killing had been done before they send a man into the school. Following procedure, even if it means a courageous teacher bleeds to death while they “access the situation.”

Shane wraps both big hands around the bulkhead handle and attempts to ease it open. “Locked,” he whispers.

I lead him around to the breezeway. When in doubt, ring the doorbell. Before pressing the button, I try the knob and much to my surprise, find the door unlocked.

“Let me go first,” Shane whispers.

Shaking him off—not hard, considering his condition—I ease the door open and step into Lyla Cutter’s kitchen.

Pancakes. The kitchen is rich with the smell of frying pancakes. And I can scarcely believe my eyes. Lyla stands at the stove, wearing a frilly white apron, a spatula raised in her hand, as if conducting a symphony only she can hear. Slumped at the table, looking wan and sleepy and confused, is an eleven-year-old boy. Tall and lanky for his age, dark hair matted to his head, as if he’s been deeply asleep for an eternity and just been awakened by the smell of breakfast.

Tommy.

Every fiber of my being wants to rush to the table, but there’s an impressive rack of knives on the counter, within easy reach of Lyla’s pale, nervous hands, so I approach cautiously.

“Good morning,” says Lyla with manic brightness. “Is everybody hungry?”

My son is alive. That’s blinking in my brain like a giant neon sign. But if Tommy is here, so is the man in the mask. Is he waiting, watching? Tormenting me one last time before he brings the hammer down, pulls the trigger, whatever he’s got planned?

“Mom?” says Tommy, voice thick, head lolling. “Is that you?”

Then I’m hugging him, holding him tight to my breast, and for once he does not protest. “Mom, my throat hurts,” he says, slurring his words. “They stuck something in my throat.”

Holding his precious face in my hands, I search his eyes. He’s been drugged, no surprise, and I can see him fighting to clear his mind. His fingernails are torn up and he’s thinner than he should be, and he stinks of sweat and pee, but other than that he seems to be unharmed.

A miracle.

“This is Tomas,” Lyla says gaily, waving the spatula. “Tomas is Jesse’s brother, isn’t that nice? I figured if my Jesse likes pancakes, so would he.”

“Is your husband here?” Shane asks her.

Lyla shrugs prettily. She’s wearing a face borrowed from television, the Happy Housewife making breakfast for the kids. “Oh, he’s around, I guess. Up to something, as usual. Wanted me to think that this boy was Jesse, isn’t that silly? Swore to me. But a mother knows. A mother always knows.”

My plan is to roll under the table with Tommy if the moment comes. Shield him with my body.

“Mrs. Cutter, is that the basement door?” Shane asks.

“Yes,” Lyla says. She won’t look at the door, as if she knows that something bad is down there. Something that will ruin her fantasy of being normal and happy.

Shane eases the door open, revealing a slice of shadow, stairs going down. Holding his finger to his lips, he gives me a look and then descends into the basement.

“Pancakes?” Lyla says, setting a plate on the table. “There’s real maple syrup from Vermont.”

Shane’s voice comes up from the basement. “Hold it right there!” he orders in his best cop voice.

That’s when I remember that Randall Shane doesn’t have a gun. He’s unarmed. Went down those dark steps with nothing but his courage.

Shane, Shane, Shane.

In my precious son’s ear I whisper this: “Can you hide if you have to?”

Tommy nods. I kiss the top of his head and go to the basement door.

Shadows. Stairs going down. A single light at the bottom. And there in a pool of light, the man in the mask, unmasked. Wearing his army uniform, crisp and clean and perfect.