Vanish (40 page)

“Put her down and start digging.”

“The ground’s so hard.”

“Like that matters now?” He tossed the diaper bag at her feet. “Let her lie down on that.”

Jane knelt, her heart now thumping so wildly she thought it would slam through her ribs. I

have one chance, she thought. Reach in the bag, grab the weapon. Turn and squeeze off the

round before he knows what’s happening. No mercy, just blow out his brains.

“Poor baby,” she murmured as she crouched over the bag. As she quietly slipped her hand

inside. “Mommy has to put you down now . . .” Her hand brushed across her wallet, a baby

bottle, diapers.
My gun. Where is my goddamn gun?

“Just set the baby down.”

It’s not here.
Her breath whooshed out of her in a sob.
Of course he took it. He’s not stupid.

I’m a cop; he knew I’d be carrying.

“Dig.”

She bent down to give Regina a kiss, a caress, then laid her on the ground with the diaper bag

as a cushion. She picked up the shovel and slowly rose to her feet. Her legs felt drained of all

energy, all hope. He was standing too far away for her to swing at him with the shovel. Even if

she threw it, it would stun him only for a few seconds. Not enough time to pick up Regina and

run.

She looked down at the ground. Under the light of the half-moon, she saw a scattering of

leaves on moss. Her bed for eternity.
Gabriel will never find us here. He will never know.

She planted the spade in the soil, and felt the first tears trickle down her cheek as she began to

dig.

THIRTY-SIX

The door to his apartment was ajar.

Gabriel paused in the hallway, instincts prickling with alarm. He heard voices talking inside,

and the sound of footsteps pacing across the floor. He gave the door a push and stepped in.

“What are you doing here?”

John Barsanti turned from the window to face him. His first question took Gabriel aback. “Do

you know where your wife is, Agent Dean?”

“Isn’t she here?” His gaze swung to the second visitor, who’d just emerged from the baby’s

room. It was Helen Glasser from the Justice Department, her silver hair pulled back in a tight

ponytail, starkly emphasizing the worried lines of her face.

“The bedroom window’s wide open,” she said.

“How did you two get in here?”

“Your building super let us in,” said Glasser. “We couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Where’s Jane?”

“That’s what we’d like to know.”

“She should be here.”

“How long have you been gone? When did you last see your wife?”

He stared at Glasser, unnerved by the urgency in her voice. “I’ve been gone about an hour. I

drove her mother home.”

“Has Jane called you since you left?”

“No.” He started toward the telephone.

“She doesn’t answer her cell, Agent Dean,” said Glasser. “We’ve already tried reaching her.

We
need
to reach her.”

He turned to look at them. “What the hell is going on?”

Glasser asked, quietly: “Is she with Mila right now?”

“The girl never showed up at the . . .” He paused. “You already knew that. You were watching

the park, too.”

“That girl is our last witness,” said Glasser. “If she’s with your wife, we need to know.”

“Jane and the baby were alone here when I left.”

“Then where are they now?”

“I don’t know.”

“You understand, Agent Dean, that if Mila is with her, Jane is in a very dangerous situation.”

“My wife knows how to take care of herself. She wouldn’t walk into anything without making

damn sure she’s prepared.” He crossed to the drawer where Jane usually stored her weapon

and found the drawer unlocked. He yanked it open and stared at the empty holster.

She took her gun.

“Agent Dean?”

Gabriel slammed the drawer shut and went into the bedroom. As Glasser had reported, the

window was wide open. Now he was scared. He walked back into the living room and felt

Glasser’s gaze searching his face, reading his fear.

“Where would she go?” Glasser said.

“She’d call
me,
that’s what she’d do.”

“Not if she thought her phone was tapped.”

“Then she’d go to the police. She’d drive straight to Schroeder Plaza.”

“We’ve already called Boston PD. She’s not there.”

“We need to find that girl,” said Barsanti. “We need her alive.”

“Let me try her cell phone one more time. Maybe this is nothing at all. Maybe she just ran out

to the store to buy milk.”
Right. And she took her gun with her.
He picked up the receiver and

was about to punch in the first number when he suddenly frowned, his gaze on the keypad. A

long shot, he thought. But just maybe . . .

He pressed redial.

After three rings, a man answered. “Hello?”

Gabriel paused, trying to place the voice. Knowing he had heard it before. Then he

remembered. “Is this . . . Peter Lukas?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Gabriel Dean. Would Jane happen to be there?”

There was a long silence. A strange silence. “No. Why?”

“Your number’s on our redial. She must have called you.”

“Oh, that.” Lukas gave a laugh. “She wanted all my notes on the Ballentree story. I told her I’d

dig them up.”

“When was that?”

“Let me think. It was about an hour ago.”

“And that was it? She didn’t say anything else?”

“No. Why?”

“I’ll keep calling around, then. Thanks.” He hung up and stood staring down at the phone.

Thinking about that silence when Lukas had not immediately answered his question.
Something

is very wrong.

“Agent Dean?” said Glasser.

He turned and looked at her. “What do you know about Peter Lukas?”

The hole was now knee-deep.

Jane scooped up another spadeful of dirt and heaved it onto the growing mound of soil. Her

tears had stopped, to be replaced by sweat. She worked in silence. The only sounds were the

scraping of the shovel and the clatter of pebbles. Regina was quiet, too, as though she

understood that there was no longer any point of making a fuss. That her fate, like that of her

mother’s, had already been decided.

No it hasn’t. Goddammit, nothing has been decided.

Jane rammed the spade into stony soil, and though her back ached and her arms were

quivering, she felt the heat of rage flood her muscles like the most potent of fuel. You won’t

hurt my baby, she thought. I will rip off your head first. She heaved the soil onto the mound,

her aches and fatigue unimportant now, her mind focused on what she had to do next. The

killer was only a silhouette standing at the edge of the trees. Though she could not see his face,

she knew he must be watching her. But she’d been digging for nearly an hour, her efforts

stymied by the rocky soil, and his attention would be flagging. What resistance, after all, could

an exhausted woman mount against an armed man? She had nothing working in her favor.

Only surprise. And a mother’s rage.

His first shot would be rushed. He’d go for the torso first, not the head. No matter what, just

keep moving, she thought, keep charging. A bullet takes time to kill, and even a falling body

has momentum.

She bent to scrape up another load of dirt, her spade deep in the hole’s shadow, hidden from

the beam of his flashlight. He could not see her muscles tense, or her foot brace itself against

the edge of the hole. He did not hear her intake of breath as her hands clamped around the

shovel handle. She crouched, limbs coiled tight.

This is for you, my darling baby. All for you.

Lifting the spade into the air, she flung the soil at the man’s face. He stumbled backward,

grunting in surprise, as she sprang out of the hole. As she charged headfirst, straight at his

abdomen.

They both went down, branches snapping under the weight of their bodies. She lunged for his

weapon, her hands closing around his wrist, and suddenly realized he was no longer holding it,

that it had been knocked from his grasp when they’d fallen.

The gun. Find the gun!

She twisted away and clawed through underbrush, scrabbling for the weapon.

The blow knocked her sideways. She landed on her back, breathless from the impact. At first

she felt no pain, only the numb shock that the battle was so quickly over. Her face began to

sting, and then the real pain shrieked its way into her skull. She saw that he was standing above

her, his head blotting out the stars. She heard Regina screaming, the final wails of her short life.

Poor baby. You’ll never know how much I loved you.

“Get in the hole,” he said. “It’s deep enough now.”

“Not my baby,” she whispered. “She’s so small—”

“Get in, bitch.”

His kick thudded into her ribs and she rolled onto her side, unable to scream because it hurt so

much just to breathe.

“Move,” he commanded.

Slowly she struggled to her knees and crawled to Regina. Felt something warm and wet

trickling from her nose. Gathering the baby into her arms, she pressed her lips to soft wisps of

hair and rocked back and forth, her blood dripping onto her baby’s head.
Mommy has you.

Mommy will never let you go.

“It’s time,” he said.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Gabriel stared into Jane’s parked Subaru, and his heart gave a sickening lurch. Her cell phone

was on the dashboard, and the baby seat was buckled into the back. He turned, aiming his

flashlight directly at Peter Lukas’s face.

“Where is she?”

Lukas’s gaze flitted to Barsanti and Glasser, who were standing a few feet away, watching the

confrontation in silence.

“This is her car,” said Gabriel. “Where is she?”

Lukas raised his hand to shield his eyes against the glare of the flashlight. “She must have

knocked on my door while I was in the shower. I didn’t even notice that her car was parked out

here.”

“First she calls you, then she comes to your house. Why?”

“I don’t know—”

“Why?” Gabriel repeated.

“She’s
your
wife. Don’t you know?”

Gabriel went for the man’s throat so quickly that Lukas didn’t have time to react. He stumbled

backward against Barsanti’s car, his head slamming onto the hood. Gasping for air, he clawed

at Gabriel’s hands but could not free himself, could only flail helplessly, his back pinned

against the car.

“Dean,” said Barsanti. “Dean!”

Gabriel released Lukas and backed away, breathing hard, trying not to give in to panic. But it

was already there, gripping his throat as surely as he had gripped Lukas, who was now down

on his knees, coughing and wheezing. Gabriel turned to the house. Ran up the steps and

banged through the front door. Moving at a blur now, he ran from room to room, opening

doors, checking closets. Only when he came back into the living room did he spot what he had

missed on the first pass: Jane’s car keys, lying on the carpet behind the couch. He stared down

at them, panic freezing into dread. You were in this house, he thought. You and Regina . . .

Distant gunshots made his head snap up.

He ran out of the house, onto the porch.

“It came from the woods,” said Barsanti.

They all froze at the crack of a third gunshot.

All at once, Gabriel was running, heedless of whipping branches and saplings as he plunged

into the woods. His flashlight beam danced crazily across a forest floor strewn with dead

leaves and fallen birches. Which way, which way? Was he going in the right direction?

A tangle of vines caught his ankle and he pitched forward, landing on his knees. He rose back

to his feet, chest heaving, as he caught his breath.

“Jane?” he shouted. His voice broke, her name fading to a whisper. “Jane . . .”

Help me find you. Show me the way.

He stood listening, trees looming all around him like the bars of a prison. Beyond the beam of

his flashlight was a night so thick it might be solid, unbreachable.

From the distance came the snap of a twig.

He spun around, but could see nothing beyond his flashlight’s glow. He shut off the light and

stared, heart thudding, as he strained to make out anything at all in the darkness. Only then did

he see the twinkling, so faint it might merely be fireflies dancing among the trees. Another snap

of a twig. The light was moving in his direction.

He drew his weapon. Held it pointed toward the ground as he watched the light grow brighter.

He could not see who was wielding the other flashlight, but he could hear the approaching

footfalls, the rustle of leaves, only a few yards away now.

He raised his weapon. Switched on the flashlight.

Caught in the beam of Gabriel’s light, the figure shrank like a terrified animal, eyes squinting

against the glare. He stared at the pale face, the spiky red hair. Just a girl, he thought. Just a

scared, skinny girl.

“Mila?” he said.

Then he saw the other figure emerge from the shadows right behind the girl. Even before he

saw her face, he recognized the walk, the silhouette of unruly curls.

He dropped the flashlight and ran toward his wife and daughter, arms already open and hungry

to hold them. She leaned against him, shaking, her arms wrapped around Regina, just as his

arms were wrapped around her. A hug within a hug, their whole family contained in the

universe of his embrace.

“I heard gunshots,” he said. “I thought—”

“It was Mila,” Jane whispered.