Текст книги "Taken"

Автор книги: Chris Jordan

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4 the man in the mask

“Sit down, Mrs. Bickford. May I call you Kate?”

I’m frozen. Can’t seem to move. The gun terrifies me but I can’t stop looking at it. Easier staring at the dark and shiny gun, rather than into the glittering eyes of the man in the black ski mask.

“Obviously you’re frightened.” The voice coming out of the mask is low and smooth, with a tone of preening confidence that makes me hate him. How dare he break into our house? “It’s okay to be scared,” he continues amiably. “But if you don’t sit down in that chair I’m going to have to shoot you in the kneecap or something, and that will make things complicated. So sit down. NOW.”

I find myself in the chair, unable to breathe, unable to stop staring at the gun, which seems to be pointing right into my eyes, or beyond my eyes, into my brain.

“Better,” says the man in the mask.

“Who are you?” I manage to say. “What do you want?”

“Better and better. Take a few more deep breaths, would you, Kate? Feel better? Good. Put your hands on the arms of the chair, where I can see them. Excellent. Now, stop looking at the gun and look at me.”

I force myself to look at the mask. I’ve seen pictures of guys dressed like this, snipers or SWAT guys or whatever. Never expected to see one of them in my own house, a living nightmare perched on my favorite chair. The mask has a big hole for the mouth, so he’s speaking clearly, unmuffled. Very white teeth. Capped or bleached, hard to say. The mouth is neither old nor young. My age, more or less.

“Good. Better. Just try to relax and we’ll get on with business.”

“Where’s my son?” It bursts out of me, much higher-pitched than my normal voice. As if some other, younger me is crying out.

“Tomas? Not to worry, Mom. Tomas is in a safe place.” A sneer on the lips. Very pleased with himself. But the gun never wavers. Very steady hands. Hands that scare me almost as much as the gun. Hands that must have touched my son.

“Where?” I demand. “Where is he?”

“That’s enough,” he says. “No more questions.”

“If you hurt him…! If he’s been harmed in any way…!”

The man in the mask leans forward, bringing the gun closer. “Shut up, Kate. You want to be a good mommy? You want the kid back in one piece? Then shut up and listen.”

I start to reply, then stop. Part of me, the small, unpanicked part, understands that I must do what he says.

“Fine,” he says. “Very good. Must be a terrible shock, huh? Coming in and finding a stranger in your house. Hate to tell you this, but your security system sucks.” He takes a deep, satisfied breath and settles back into my chair. “Okay, you want to know what this is about? Go on, ask away.”

“Yes. I want to know.”

“Excellent. And you haven’t panicked yet. Which is good for both of us. Shooting you would make things ugly. Trust me, you don’t want that. What this is about, Kate, is very simple. It’s about money. Your money. Which is soon to be my money.”

“How much?”

“Good question,” he says, smiling with approval. “Here’s my answer. All of it. Every penny. You okay with that, Kate? Is the kid worth wiping out your bank accounts?”

“Yes.”

“Good answer, and I like the way you didn’t hesitate. We’re going to get along just fine, you and me. For the period of our brief acquaintance. And if we don’t get along, if you don’t cooperate, you know what I’m going to do?”

He waits. My mouth is so dry it’s hard to form a word.

“What?” I finally ask.

“I’ll cut out Tommy’s heart,” he says. “I’ll cut out his heart and give it to you in a plastic bag.”

The man in the mask puts aside my son’s PlayStation controls and pulls a knife out of the sheath on his ankle. Gun in one hand, never wavering, and now, glittering, a knife in the other.

“This is what I’ll use,” he says very softly. “My trusty K-Bar. And it won’t be the first heart I’ve ever cut out.” He pauses, studying me. His lips twitching slightly. “Do you believe me, Kate?”

“Yes,” I manage to say.

And I do.

The mind, I discover, is a funny thing. Much more capable than I had imagined. For although part of me, a sizable, shivering part of me, remains terrified, a cold place in my brain seems to be processing information, making decisions. Guiding me, even as I quiver in fear. The fear not so much that I will die, but that my son will die if I don’t do the right thing. If I don’t think and behave rationally.

Don’t give him a reason, that part of my mind tells me. Meaning no sudden moves, no hysteria—that state of supposedly female panic that has always repulsed me in others—no fountains of tears. The man with the gun may be a psychotic killer—he wants you to believe he is—but he’s been in your life for less than five minutes and he’s already told you exactly what he wants. You might call that progress.

He wants money. And if money is what he wants, then money is what he’ll get. At the same time, access to the money is my only leverage. How best to use that leverage? Not to defy him—he’s not a man I’d care to defy, under any circumstances—but to make sure that Tommy is okay. To make sure that he’ll be returned to his home, and to his mother, in one piece. Undamaged.

“How do I know—” I begin. Then stop to work some moisture into my parched mouth. “How do I know my son is…okay?”

He puts the knife back in the sheath at his ankle. A move so delicate and smooth and practiced that it makes my breath catch in my throat. Something about the way he does it makes me believe he could slip the knife into flesh just as adroitly. And with as much physical pleasure.

He smiles and clicks his white, white teeth together. “Bad Kate,” he says. “She didn’t ask permission to ask a question.”

“Please tell me my son is okay.”

“No begging, Kate. Here’s the deal. You want to ask me a question? Pose it this way—‘Permission to ask a question, sir.’ Got it?”

For him this is a kind of game, obviously. And humiliating me, or toying with me, is part of that game. I have no choice but to play along.

“Permission to ask a question, sir.”

The mouth in the mask grins. “Permission denied. For the time being. Sometime in the next few hours you will be allowed to speak to Tommy on the cell. He’ll be a little woozy because he’s been drugged—”

“You drugged my son!”

He moves so fast I don’t even have time to react. One moment he’s seated in the chair—my chair—and the next the gun is pressing against my forehead like a cold steel finger, pushing me back into the cushions.

Can’t help it, tears spill from my eyes and run down my cheeks. He’s inches from me, his breath coming in snorts. I can hear his teeth grinding. I can smell him, the sharp scent of his maleness, his anger. It’s all I can do to keep from peeing my pants, that’s how much he frightens me. The last time I was this scared was as a five-year-old, imagining a monster under my bed, waiting to reach up through the mattress and grab me. I’d been too terrified to scream then. This fear is even more visceral.

“Never, never,” he says, whispering his hot breath into the side of my face. “Never, ever defy me. Never raise your voice. Is that understood? Nod if you can’t speak.”

I nod, feeling the barrel of the pistol pressing hard into my forehead. Terrified that a bullet will explode me into the darkness, leaving Tommy without a mother.

Slowly, he stops panting and his breathing becomes regular. I haven’t been this close to a man since Ted died, and it gives me a sick feeling. Makes my skin crawl with revulsion.

At last he backs up a step, and the pressure on my forehead lessens. His hand cups my chin, holding my face. He squeezes until I whimper in pain.

“Kate, Kate. What are we going to do about you, huh? I thought you wanted to cooperate. Play the game. Get your kid back.”

“You’re hurting me.”

He responds by squeezing harder, then suddenly his hand is gone and my face is burning with shame.

“Where were we?” he says, his voice weirdly amiable again. “Oh right. You want me to prove your son is still alive. Understandable. Of course we drugged him, Kate. Had to. Did you want me to coldcock him with this gun? No? Drugging the target is the safe way, Kate. You’ll just have to trust me on this. We have a method. The method works.”

We, of course. There has to be more than one person involved. Are they all monsters like the man in the mask? Or is he the designated heavy, selected because he knows how to instill fear?

Oddly enough, the idea of Tommy’s abduction being part of an organized activity is something of a relief. Maybe there are saner minds at work. People who understand there is nothing to be gained by killing my son.

My eyes are still blurred with tears, but I can tell that he’s back in the chair. A wave of dread sweeps through me, as if soaking into my bones, producing a new flood of tears. I hate this, crying, hate how it makes me look weak. But I can’t stop it from happening. There are times for me when crying is as involuntary as breathing. Times when it is better not to fight it, just to get it over with, to get beyond the tears. As, eventually, I did when we lost Ted.

Suddenly, something hits me in the face. Something soft and light. It falls to my lap. My hands find a little wad of thin cloth.

A handkerchief.

“Wipe your face. You have snot running down your lips.”

I do as he says, thinking, what sort of man carries a hankie these days? And then it comes to me. A man who makes women cry. A man who has done this before, and is ready for every eventuality.

“The method, Kate. The method is your friend. Let me explain how it works.”

He’s interrupted by the chirping of a phone. Sudden and shrill, it sends a jet of cold blood through my heart. With the gun still aimed at my head, he reaches into one of his pockets and extracts a cell phone. Angrily snaps it open and checks the display.

“I told you, never call this number!” he snarls into the phone. “Never, never, never! No, it’s not possible! Okay, okay. Stop crying and listen to me carefully. Are you listening? Good. I promise you, he’s alive. Your son is alive. That’s all you need to know at this time. And if you do exactly as I say, if you follow my instructions, you’ll see him soon. Very soon.”

He snaps the cell phone closed, slips it into his pocket, and calmly stares at me with his dark, glittering eyes. As if daring me to say something.

I remain silent. But I’ve discovered something important. Mine is not the only child who has been kidnapped.

5 what hinks thinks

The white panel van is unmarked, but it will almost certainly be mistaken for a phone company van, or a vehicle dispatched by one of the many utility companies that service the area. Which is precisely why it was selected. A white panel van in a suburban neighborhood is as close to invisible as a solid object can get.

Some minutes before Mrs. Katherine Bickford enters her home on Linden Terrace, the white van parks next to a street-surface utility access on Beech Terrace. Two men wearing generic work clothes and tool belts exit the van, place three incandescent orange cones near the manhole cover and return to the van.

The white van is positioned in such a way as to afford it a clear view through the common, toward Linden Terrace and—no coincidence—the target home, a shingled Cape with a large garage. This common area, which abuts three cul-de-sac streets in the development, is known as “the green,” to local residents.

A full two-acre swath, the green is a popular dog-walking area. No resident would think of walking a dog there without a pooper-scooper in hand. It’s that kind of neighborhood. By mutual agreement foliage is kept low, no more than twelve inches in height, so as not to provide cover for any nefarious activities that might arise. Drug dealing, teen drinking, whatever. Residents are in the habit of glancing toward the green whenever they exit their driveways, because children play on the green, kicking soccer balls, playing laser tag, or fluttering Frisbees. So far there’s never been a problem with strangers or suspected pedophiles, but by common consent all the residents keep an eye on the green, and are prepared to report anything unusual.

The white van with the orange cones is not unusual and will therefore not be reported. Likely it will not even be noticed.

Inside the van, two men, both approximately thirty years of age, drink from a silver thermos of coffee. Both men are trim and physically fit, and seem at ease with each other, as if they are well suited to working as a team. From the outside, a passerby might suppose the two men are listening to the radio as they pause for a coffee break—Rush Limbaugh, perhaps, or maybe G. Gordon Liddy—but in reality they’re monitoring an audio feed from the target home.

“Fucking guy,” says Hinks in a tone of admiration.

“You gotta hand it to Cutter,” says Wald. “He’s got a way with women.”

“Fucks he do it?”

“Language, Hinks. We’re working for the phone company here. They have standards.”

“They can kiss my ass,” says Hinks, sassing him back.

He’s known Wald for nine years now, eight in the military when they held the same rank in a special ops unit commanded by Captain Cutter. This is their first foray into a civilian mission, and so far it has been interesting—and potentially much more lucrative than any of the boring jobs either man has been offered since being discharged. That the assignment is highly illegal, and laden with danger, makes it all the more appealing.

Their banter is interrupted by the intercepted cell call to Cutter, currently inside the target home. Upon hearing the substance of the call, the two men exchange glances.

“That woman is out of her ever-loving mind,” comments Hinks. “The lovely Lyla.”

“Piece of ass,” agrees Wald, “but definitely missing a few crucial marbles.”

“Violating protocol.”

“Cell’s scrambled,” Wald points out. “No harm, no foul.”

“Still. The woman is a loose cannon. What if she goes to the cops? Think they’d believe her?”

“Cutter will handle her. Just like he’s handling this Bickford bitch.”

Hinks pauses, listens to the feed. The boss dispenses with the cell call and is now laying it out for the Bickford bitch in no uncertain terms. Less than twenty minutes inside and she’s eating out of his hand. Eager to obey.

Truly an amazing talent.

Out in the field, the special ops rule of thumb was ten hours. That’s how long it would take, on average, to break a typical target. Scare the shit out of ’em, strip away the ego, leave ’em so empty they have no choice but to cooperate. Of course, this is a civilian situation, totally different, but even so, good old Captain Cutter is impressive. Has it down to a science. His so-called “method,” which the unit had used in numerous special ops situations. The idea, Cutter bores in on the target with that crazed-psycho routine of his, keeps it up until their eyes bug out with fear, then he backs off just before they start screaming. Hinks had witnessed Cutter pulling the same bullshit act in a bar in the Philippines. Mindfucking a couple of rowdy jarheads who, had they realized it, could have torn Cutter into small pieces. And yet he had prevailed by convincing the dumb-shit marines he was crazy enough to want to die and take them with him, just for laughs.

The man was convincing. So convincing that now and then Hinks wondered if it really was an act, but thus far Cutter had always been able to snap back precisely when the situation required. The cap ever got to the point he couldn’t turn it off, they’d probably have to frag him. But that was theoretical—so theoretical he and Wald had never even discussed it—and for the time being Hinks was content with the situation. Working for Cutter was way better than sorting letters for the postal service or sitting on his butt as a security guard. There were risks to Cutter’s method, of course—very serious risks—but the rewards were commensurate with the risks. Cutter’s words. Cutter’s method. For right now, for today, Hinks was in with both feet.

Wald, not exactly a deep thinker, tended to follow Hinks’s lead. It had been that way since basic, and so far Hinks hadn’t steered his bud wrong.

“You think he’ll do her?” Wald wants to know. “Kind of hot, for a oldie.”

“Oldie?” Hinks chuckled. “The Bickford bitch is thirty-four. That’s only a few years older than we are.”

“Nineteen is my target age. I like ’em fresh. As you well know.”

“Think of it this way. When you were a freshman she’d have been a senior.”

“Yup. And I’d have waited a year until she was nineteen. That’s when they’re ripe.”

Hinks shakes his head. “You’re a wack job, Wald.”

“I just know what I want.”

“Total wack job.” It was said with some affection. Wald’s wacky humor made him interesting.

For instance, this time on a night patrol in Takrit, trying to sort out the Saddam sympathizers from the general malcontents, Hinks had seen Wald suddenly wheel around and shoot an unarmed camel jockey in the head. Guy had been standing there with his hands empty, glowering at the troops but not resisting while the unit conducted a search for concealed weapons. Without warning, Wald dropped the son of a bitch like a side of meat. After which he turned to the rest of the unit and said, “What can I say? I could read his mind. Fucker was thinking evil thoughts.”

Later it was determined that Wald’s victim had indeed been a former member of Saddam’s Baath party. Even if he hadn’t been carrying grenades at that particular moment, no doubt he really was directing evil thought waves at the American soldiers, just like Wald said.

“So,” says Wald, “the question remains. Will Cutter do her? He gonna bone the bitch or what?”

Hinks shrugs. “Doubtful. He never did much fooling around I ever saw, not even in Thailand. Also, it’s not part of the method.”

“Fuck the method. If she’s in my range, bam.”

“Not how the captain operates,” says Hinks.

“So far.”

Hinks checks his watch. “Twelve minutes, we have to move the vehicle.”

“I got ten bucks says the captain will have her licking his ice-cream cone by then.”

“You’re on.”

Safe bet. Hinks is convinced that Wald is projecting his own adolescent fantasies, what he’d do if he was the one inside the target home. Cutter is different. Cutter will remain in control not only of the target but of himself.

That’s what Hinks thinks. And so far he’s been right on the money.

6 method man

The idea that the man in the mask might want to rape me rattles inside my head, bouncing around like a malevolent pinball. Can’t quite grasp what I will do if he tries. Saving my son remains the primary concern. The only concern, really. My physical well-being doesn’t concern me at the moment. All that matters is getting Tommy back.

It’s like this: if cutting off my hands would make this man go away and return my son to my bleeding arms, I’d do it. No hesitation. That’s the kind of bargain I’m willing to make.

“So you’re a widow,” he’s saying, waving the gun at me like a wand. “Must have been tough.” He pauses, tilts his head. “You may respond.”

“It was tough,” I concede.

“But you bounced back,” he says, sounding weirdly, creepily cheerful. “Did very well for yourself, Kate.”

I remain in the chair, palms sweating, heart slamming. I can still feel the impression the barrel made on my forehead. Meanwhile, the man in the mask acts like it never happened, like we’re having a normal conversation. There he sits in my best leather chair, confident and pleased with himself, as if he’s an honored guest in my house. It makes me hate him. Makes me think that if I had the gun I’d use it, no hesitation. Which is something of a shock. Never having imagined I was capable of such a thing.

Oh, but I am. And yet I dare not make a move. The man in the mask is much stronger than I am, much quicker, and it’s clear he won’t hesitate to kill me if I give him reason to.

I’m sitting here in a cold sweat, thinking about nightmares. How vivid and real they can be. But nothing like this. Nothing like the dread that has settled into my bones. A dread that comes from the realization that there’s nothing random about what has happened. It has all been planned, down to the last detail. Consider: the man in the mask knew exactly where Tommy would be. My son was taken from a crowded parking lot without anyone witnessing the snatch, not even me. My home-security system was breached, no problem. And the cell-phone call that pissed him off seems to be connected to another kidnapping. Tommy has been drugged and taken away and I will eventually be allowed to speak to him over the phone, supposedly. All of which confirms that others must be involved. The man in the mask is part of a team. A team of professional kidnappers using proven terror tactics to enrich themselves.

That’s the real nightmare.

Despite all the mall stories about bogeymen, all the sad-looking kids on milk cartons, I’d always assumed real kidnappers were rare, opportunistic predators. Sick loners who stole children for their own twisted sexual purposes. The notion of teams of professional abductors, terrorizing families for money, that was supposed to be a third world phenomenon. Something that happened in Mexico or Colombia or the Philippines. Not here. Not in suburban Connecticut. Not in Fairfax.

But it is happening. Facts on the ground, as the shouting heads on TV like to say. Nothing I can do to change what has already occurred. My mind has been racing with what-ifs. What if we never went to the game? What if I never let Tommy out of my sight? What if I’d called 911 from the parking lot as soon as the first pang of worry quivered in my gut? What if? What if?

Too late, Kate. Deal with it. Find a way.

Part of me remains convinced the man in the mask intends to kill me no matter what I do, or how much money he gets out of me, that erasing the victims is all part of the plan. But I can’t allow myself to give up hope. Not as long as there’s a chance, however small. Imprinted in my brain is the promise he’s made, that he will put me in contact with my son. Presumably before I get him the money, however that is to be accomplished.

My bank, I know, is closed for the day. Five o’clock they shut the doors. And it’s now well after six. The thought of waiting until tomorrow makes me physically ill. I can’t stand it that long, can I? My heart will stop if I can’t speak to Tommy soon, assure myself he’s okay.

“I can see your mind racing, Kate,” says the man in the mask. “You’re wondering how we’re going to do this. How you get the money and exchange it for your son.”

I keep my mouth shut, knowing he’ll tell me.

“Very good,” he says, amused. “You’re learning not to respond without permission. We knew you were a smart lady, Kate. That’s why this is going to work, once you learn the method.”

A phone bleats, jolting me in the seat. My phone this time. He pauses, cocking his head. “Let it go,” he instructs. “Your voice mail will get it. Then we’ll see who it is.”

The phone rings six times and then goes silent.

“Two minutes,” he says, settling back in my chair. “Relax.”

I’m watching the digital clock on the VCR. Never thought a second could take so long to elapse, as if time itself has become molten. Tick, tick, tick—but of course there’s no actual sound. No comfort from an old-fashioned clock.

When a little more than two minutes has passed, the man in the mask stands up. He moves a few steps to his left, the gun pivoting as he moves, unerringly aimed at my heart. He retrieves the nearest phone and returns to my chair. Settling in, getting comfortable. Mocking me with a small, satisfied smile. With his left hand he thumbs a number.

“Surprised?” he asks. “I know your voice-mail code, Kate. I know everything.”

He pauses, listening to the prompts, thumbs a button on the receiver, listens some more.

“Somebody named Jake,” he says, disconnecting. “Wants to know if you located Tommy. Would Jake be the guy at the snack trailer by any chance?”

I wait.

“You may respond,” he says.

“Yes.”

He tosses the phone at me. It hits the middle of my chest, right between my breasts, and falls into my lap. “Pick it up,” he says. “Call him back. Tell him the kid was at home when you got here. All is well.”

I scroll to Jake’s number, am about to key it in.

“Wait,” says the man in the mask. “This is your first test, Kate. Convince him. Convince me. If you fail, if you try to get cute, end of story. You and your son are both dead. Got it?”

I nod.

“Proceed.”

The connection opens almost immediately. “Jake Gavner.”

The phone is so slippery with my own sweat that I have to grip it with all my might. “Jake? Um, this is Kate Bickford returning your call. Just wanted to let you know Tommy is fine. He was here when I got home, playing a video game.”

“Great. Give him my best.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“Helluva a game he had.”

“Sure was. Helluva game.”

“Hey, put him on. I’ll tell him so myself. Maybe give him a rain check for that ice-cream sundae.”

For an awful moment my mind goes totally blank. I’m aware that the man in the mask is studying me with interest, as if curious to know whether I’ll pull this off. Whether I’ll live to make another phone call. The studied indifference is a pose—it has to be—but it says he doesn’t care one way or another. Live or die, my choice.

“Sorry, Jake. Sent him to the shower.”

“Well, don’t be too hard on the kid. Isn’t every day a boy gets a game-winning double.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him that. And thank you, Jake. I appreciate it.”

“Next time the dog is on me. With extra kraut.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

A moment after disconnection the phone slips from my nerveless hands. With a deft move the man in the mask retrieves it, checks to make sure I’ve really disconnected.

“I’m impressed,” he says. “You’re good. Even I believed you.”

The flood of relief makes tears come, but I fight it. Determined never to weep again in the presence of this vile man. This monster in my house, sitting in my chair, holding my phone. Holding my son.

“You should know that every call to this address is being monitored,” he says. “So if you tried something silly, I’d be informed. If, for instance, your friend Jake had said he’d like to drop by for a little post-game nooky with the widow Bickford, I’d know about it.”

Nooky. A word so sly and ugly that it makes my jaw clench. I’m not a prude, but certain words have that effect on me. Get over it, Kate, I urge myself. Do not react. Don’t allow him any more control over you than he’s already got.

“As you’ve no doubt already figured out, we can’t transfer funds until your bank opens tomorrow morning. What I have in mind requires a personal appearance from the account holder. You, Kate. All prettied up and looking happy and relaxed because you’re buying a condo in the Cayman Islands. So pretty that soon I want you to get some sleep, Kate. Think you can do that?”

I shake my head no. Is he crazy? Sleep? Not a possibility. “My son. You said—”

“Shh.”

I shut up.

“Better. You had a little relapse there, speaking without permission. You’re forgiven this time, Kate. I’m in a forgiving mood because you did so well with the phone call. Tell you what, before beddy-bye we’ll call your kid, okay?”

I nod furiously.

“Before we get to that, I need to do a little walking around in your beautiful house. Check out a few things. So I’m going to cuff your ankles. Put your feet out in front of you and hold them together.”

I do as instructed and a moment later my ankles are cuffed together with a thick, white plastic strap.

“Can’t be released,” he informs me as he straightens up. “All it can do is tighten. If you don’t want the circulation cut off to your feet, you’ll leave it alone. I’m going to be out of the room for five minutes, tops. If you leave the chair, I’ll know and you’ll be punished. Very unpleasantly.”

In a blink, he’s gone. Out of my line of vision and prowling somewhere in my house. When I realize what it might mean, that the man in the mask has pressing business elsewhere in my house, my heart starts to race. Hope rings through my body like a gong. Tommy is right here in the house! He’s been here all along! He’s in the next room, unconscious but alive!

I leap to my feet, fall over with a thump. Facedown on my own plush carpet, I think, Don’t be a fool, he’ll hear you. He’ll punish you, and worse, he may punish Tommy.

Cautiously, silently, I get up on my knees and begin to crawl. A kind of bunny hop because I can’t move my feet. Hop, hop, hop. Dragging myself along with my hands. Making a line straight for the door where the man in the mask vanished. Leading me to my son.

Tommy is in his own bedroom, I’m thinking. Yes, yes! He was there all along and I never looked! Must be there, why else would the man leave me alone? Why else would he say, “I want to check out a few things”? Couldn’t be anything that important, with one exception. My precious son.

Even before I get out of the family room, I’m already thinking about how to get up the stairs. Should I make a diversion for the kitchen, find a knife, cut the ankle cuffs? No time. Follow the man to Tommy’s room. See with your own eyes that your son is alive and safe in his own bed.

I crawl to the stairs and prepare to ascend. My baby is up there in his own bedroom and he’s in danger, terrible danger.

I make it as far as the first step. That’s when the man in the mask emerges from the downstairs bathroom with his pants around his knees.

“Son of a bitch!” he exclaims, hastily yanking up and zipping his fly. “Can’t a man take a piss around here?”

Then he’s on me in a heartbeat, boot stomping into my back, forcing me down off the bottom stair, grinding me into the floor, forcing the air from my lungs.

Breathing heavily, he towers over me as I groan and roll over, trapped between his legs. “Kate, Kate,” he says with a sigh of disappointment. “What were you thinking?”

“Tommy!” I blubber. “In his room. You were g-going to ch-check on him!”

And then I weep convulsively. As I did the morning after Ted died, when I awoke thinking he was in the bed next to me. The awful disappointment crashing through me, rending me to pieces, dissolving me in tears and phlegm and shuddering misery.

The man in the ski mask kneels next to me, making soothing noises, stroking my back as it convulses with grief. “Shh, shh. Go on, let it all out. Do you good to cry, Mrs. Bickford. You thought your boy was here, in the house, huh? So you went to him. That was really, really stupid. We never keep the package in the target house, Mrs. Bickford. We’re very organized. We have a method.” He strokes my forehead, his rough thumb tenderly tracing the imprint of the gun barrel. “Do you understand? Am I getting through to you?” He pauses, dark eyes staring at me from out of the mask. “You may answer.”