Текст книги "The Missing"

Автор книги: Chris Mooney

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter 40

A light rain fell over Boston, the highways clogged with traffic.

Daniel Boyle, sitting behind the wheel of the Federal Express van, clicked on the blinker and turned left, heading slowly down the ramp, the shocks groaning from the weight in the back.

Two policemen were guarding the delivery area. Boyle stopped in front of a long length of steel plating. He knew what it was. With a flip of a switch, the steel plating would turn over, revealing a set of road spikes that would puncture the tires of any fleeing vehicle.

An overweight cop with a jowly face lumbered his way through the rain. Boyle rolled down his window, face pleasant, smiling.

‘Good morning, officer. This isn’t my normal route – I’m just filling in for the day. I have a package for the lab. Could you tell me where to go?’

‘You have to sign in first.’

Boyle took the clipboard. His hands were covered in leather driving gloves. He wrote the name ‘John Smith’ on the clipboard. The name matched the photo on the laminated FedEx badge clipped to his shirt pocket. Boyle had other supporting credentials ready, if needed.

He handed the clipboard back through the window. The fat cop’s partner was busy looking around the van.

‘Go down this ramp here, park in the back – you’ll see the signs marked off pretty clearly,’ the fat cop said. ‘Deliveries are through that gray door back there. Follow the corridor to the front desk. Someone there will sign for it. You don’t have to take the package up.’

Boyle was about to ease off the brakes when the second cop said, ‘Back of your van is sagging quite a bit there, fella.’

‘Shocks are gone,’ Boyle said. ‘I’ve got three more stops and this baby’s going in the shop. Rate I’m going, I’ll be working until six tonight. Great way to start the day, huh?’

The fat cop, wanting to get out of the rain, waved him through.

A bump as Boyle drove the van over the steel plating. He headed down the ramp and into the garage. Security cameras were mounted high on the walls, sweeping the area. He pulled the FedEx cap low on his brow.

There were plenty of parking spaces for the delivery trucks. Boyle chose the one closest to the stairs.

Out of his seat and through the door behind him, Boyle grabbed the heavy package and headed inside.

The white surveillance van, complete with a periscope and microwave transmitters and receivers, was designed to look like a telephone repair vehicle. The driver was also dressed to look the part.

Darby sat next to Coop on a carpet-covered bench near the back doors. Across from her, seated on the opposite bench, were two members from Boston SWAT. Both men were sweating beneath their heavy combat gear. One was busy chewing gum and blowing bubbles, the other checking the impressive-looking Heckler & Koch MP7 machine gun strapped across his chest.

She had no idea where they were. There weren’t any windows. The tight space smelled of men’s deodorant and coffee.

Banville was seated on a bolted-down swivel chair set up in front of a small but workable desk. He was having a private conversation with one of the FBI technicians. She wondered what was going on.

Another fed, a pair of headphones wrapped around his massive bald head, was listening to Evan’s conversation in the house, sometimes pausing to talk to his partner, who was busy studying the screen of a laptop. It was hooked up to some futuristic-looking equipment being used to monitor the listening device’s frequency. At the moment, the devices were turned off.

The call would come through. The FBI techs would lock on to the signal and Boston SWAT would get the call to move in. Boston SWAT was very good. They would move in hard and fast.

The wall phone started ringing. Darby tensed, digging her fingers into the edge of her seat.

Banville answered it. He listened for a full minute before he hung up. He shook his head.

‘Bugs are still off,’ he said.

Darby rubbed her damp palms across her pants. Come on, goddamnit. Turn on.

The marble lobby of the Boston police station was very impressive. Boyle was sure hidden security cameras were watching him right now, recording his every move. Cops were everywhere. He kept his head bowed as he moved quickly toward the front desk.

The blue uniform sitting high behind the front desk was reading today’s Herald by a banker’s lamp. Boyle slid the big package across the wood.

‘Want me to take this up?’ Boyle asked. ‘It’s pretty heavy.’

‘No, we’ll take it from here. You need me to sign anything?’

‘You’re all set,’ Boyle said. ‘Have a great day.’

*

Billy Lankin was still thinking about the FedEx truck. He didn’t know much about cars, but he felt reasonably sure the problem with the delivery truck wasn’t blown shocks.

Billy’s partner, Dan Simmons, sipped his coffee as rain drummed softly against the roof above them.

That’s the eighth time you’ve looked in the garage, Billy.’

‘It’s that FedEx truck. I don’t like the looks of it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The way the back of the truck is sagging,’ Billy said. ‘I don’t think the shocks are blown.’

‘If it’s bothering you that much, go take a look.’

‘I think I will.’

Chapter 41

Boyle opened the door to the parking garage. The cop stationed out front, the one who had looked over the back of the truck, was checking the driver’s side door.

Smile and play it cool.

‘ Something wrong, officer?’

‘Since when do you guys lock up your truck? You don’t trust us?’ The cop grinned, but there was a warning behind it.

‘Force of habit,’ Boyle said, returning the smile. ‘My normal route is in Dorchester. When I started out there, I was delivering a package and some kids vandalized my truck. Guess who was liable for all the damages?’

‘You mind if I take a look in the back?’

‘Sure.’ Boyle reached inside his jacket for the keys. He felt the Colt Commander tucked inside the shoulder holster.

Boyle unlocked the back door. The cop ran his tongue across his front teeth as he looked around at the boxes lined on the shelves. Boyle wondered if the cop was going to get inside the truck and start moving the boxes around. The fertilizer bombs were packaged in big boxes underneath the shelves. Boyle had left nothing to chance.

The cop moved his head out. ‘You better get those shocks looked at.’

‘I’m going to drop off the truck right now,’ Boyle said. ‘Have a good one.’

Ten minutes later, Boyle was back on the road, heading toward Storrow Drive. He put on his headphones and tuned his iPod to the frequency of the small listening device he had planted inside the taped folds of the brown paper wrapped around the package.

A scrambling of noises, people talking, voices far and close.

A voice came over the headphones: ‘Christ, this thing’s heavy.’

Next, a loud thud, and then the same voice said, ‘Hey, Stan, do me a favor and pull the rest of the mail off the conveyor belt, will ya?’

‘I thought you wanted me to go get us something to eat?’

‘In a minute. This package just came in for the lab. I want to get it upstairs.’

Boyle took out his BlackBerry and typed the message quickly with his thumbs: ‘Package delivered. About to go on X-ray machine. Test for explosives?’

Boyle hit send and waited. He wished he could talk to Richard. It would be certainly quicker and much easier than trying to type while driving.

Richard’s message came through: ‘They’ll see mannequin on X-ray and will rush to the lab.’

Boyle hoped Richard was right. He typed back: ‘Twenty minutes from hospital. Darby?’

Five minutes later, Richard’s response came through. ‘She’s in van, with SWAT. Will turn on listening devices in 30 minutes. Signal when ready.’

Boyle hit the gas.

Stan Petarsky, one of three X-ray technicians hired by the Boston police, sat on a stool behind the controls, sipping coffee to clear his head. Last night, he had another humdinger of a fight with his wife about his drinking, and right now he didn’t know what was worse – the pounding hangover or the sound of his wife’s nagging voice ringing through his head.

A little nip from a bottle of Jim Beam would shut them both up. He’d have to wait until lunch, though, when the bar across the street opened.

The package was moving down the conveyor belt. When it reached the X-ray machine, he edged the controls until the package was in full view on the monitor, which was eye level with his face.

Stan stood up fast, knocking his stool over. ‘Jimmy, get over here.’

‘What?’

‘Take a look at this.’ Stan stepped back so Jimmy could get a full view of the X-ray monitor.

Inside the brown-wrapped box were severed limbs and a head. Stan could make out the legs and arms. Next to the head was a hand wearing several rings and a watch.

Stan’s stomach squeezed so hard he thought he was going to dry-heave.

Jimmy rubbed a shaking hand across his dry lips. ‘Back the package out of the X-ray for a minute. I want to see something.’

Stan did. Jimmy put on his bifocals and examined the writing.

‘Check out the name in the return address,’ Jimmy said. His face was pale.

‘Carol Cranmore,’ Stan said. ‘So what?’

‘So that’s the name of the missing girl. Haven’t you been following the news?’

‘Christ Almighty. You think her body is in there?’

‘You better call upstairs and tell them.’

‘You do it. I have to do the test for explosives first.’

‘You think there’s a bomb stuffed up her ass?’

‘Hey, I’m just following procedure.’

‘I need to make some calls. While I’m on the phone, you might want to do yourself a favor, chew on some mints or gum or something. I’m getting a buzz off your breath, hear what I’m saying?’

Darby shifted in her seat. On the laptop screen were two pairs of steady lines which reminded her of an EKG.

She was itching for something to happen, needed to get busy. She kept crossing her legs.

Coop leaned in close to her. ‘Is there something wrong with your ass?’

‘Those devices should have turned on by now.’

‘Be patient.’

Half an hour passed.

‘I talked to my sister last night,’ Coop said. ‘Trish is going into the hospital tomorrow. They’re going to induce labor.’

‘How long is she overdue?’ Darby’s attention was still on the laptop.

‘Almost two weeks,’ Coop said. ‘They finally picked out a name for my nephew. Fabrice.’

‘She’s naming the baby after an air freshener?’

‘No, that’s Febreze. I said Fa brice. It’s French, like her husband.’

‘That kid better grow up with a thick skin.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Coop said. ‘Brandy thought the name sounded cool and hip.’

‘Brandy?’

‘New girl I’m seeing. She’s studying to be a cosmetologist. When she graduates, she wants to move to New York and name lipsticks.’

‘What does that mean? Name lipsticks?’

‘Lipstick companies, they can’t say colors like pink or blue. They’ve got to come up with cool marketing names like Pink Sugar and Loud and Lovely Lavender. Those are her names, by the way.’

‘Hands down, she’s certainly the brightest woman you’ve dated.’

The lines on the laptop’s screen started vibrating.

‘The listening devices are transmitting,’ the FBI tech said.

Darby grabbed the edge of her seat as the van sped up.

Chapter 42

The hospital bathroom reeked of Pine-Sol. Boyle was alone. He stood inside the last stall on the far left. He had already taken off his hat and FedEx jacket. The empty backpack, which had been strapped across his back, was now on the floor.

Boyle had worn green surgeon’s scrubs underneath his clothes. He took off his boots and slipped on a pair of sneakers. After he tied a bandana around his head, he stuffed the boots and FedEx clothes into the backpack and opened the stall door.

He checked himself in the mirror. Good. A pair of stylish black-framed glasses was tucked inside his breast pocket. He put them on.

Boyle stuffed his backpack inside the garbage can. He took out his BlackBerry and typed: ‘Ready. In position.’

Boyle opened the door and stepped out into the bright, busy corridor on the eighth floor. He walked down three corridors and stopped near the large bay windows overlooking the entrance for Mass General.

The only vehicles allowed near the main entrance were taxis and ambulances. He saw six ambulances parked out front. Two more ambulances were coming. Police were busy directing traffic. More police had been called in to handle the swelling crowd of reporters. They were huddled near the old brick building used for hospital deliveries.

Richard’s message came through five minutes later: ‘Go.’

Boyle reached inside his pocket. The detonator felt cold in his hand.

He walked away from the windows toward ICU. When he reached the waiting room, he hit the button.

A distant rumble, followed by glass shattering. Then the screaming started.

Stan Petarsky was trying hard not to think about the dead body inside the box next to his feet. He tried to think about something pleasant – like Jim Beam over ice – when the elevator door opened.

Erin Walsh, the pretty blonde he saw sometimes in the cafeteria, was standing in front of a door, talking on her cell phone and waving to him to come this way, to the stairwell. Stan picked up the box and carried it into Serology Lab.

Erin started taking pictures. Stan didn’t want to stick around to see a severed body. He headed for the door, thinking about how to get his hands on some Jim Beam, when the package exploded.

Chapter 43

Darby had a new view: a monitor showing what was happening outside the surveillance van.

They were driving at a good clip down Pickney Street, three blocks away from the Cranmore house. The houses were a little better over here, but not by much. Darby spotted more than one car parked up on cinder blocks.

Karl Hartwig, one of the SWAT members, was kneeling in the center of the van, his face covered by the periscope. Everyone else was watching the laptop.

On the monitor and coming up close was a battered black van parked on the left-hand side of the road, near a grouping of trees making up a small patch of hillywoods.

Spikes danced on the laptop screen and leveled off.

‘He’s in the black van,’ the FBI tech said.

Hartwig talked into his chest mike: ‘Alpha-One, this is Alpha-Two, we have confirmation on a black Ford van with tinted windows and no license plates parked on Pickney Street, over.’

‘Roger, Alpha-Two. We’re moving into position.’

A moment later, the surveillance pulled over and came to a stop. The engine was still running, the floor vibrating beneath her feet. Hartwig moved the periscope.

On the monitor now, down the far end of the street from which they had just come, was a UPS truck. It traveled a few feet and pulled over. Darby caught a brief flash of black coming from the back of the truck and then it was gone.

The UPS truck didn’t move. Darby knew it would stay there and block the street.

Static over Hartwig’s mike, then ‘Alpha-Two, this is Alpha-One.’

‘Go ahead Alpha-One,’ Hartwig said.

‘Alpha teams Three and Four are moving in position. Stand by.’

‘Roger, Alpha-One. Standing by.’

The UPS truck swept past the woods. The third surveillance vehicle, a flower delivery van, made its way down Coolidge Road.

Traveler was blocked in.

The black van still hadn’t moved.

Banville hung up the wall phone. ‘All the areas are blocked off,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s in position.’

‘Alpha-One, all teams report ready to go,’ Hartwig said. ‘We’re in position and standing by, over.’

‘Acknowledged, Alpha-Two. Prepare to engage.’

‘Copy, Alpha-One.’

Darby felt the surveillance van pull away from the curb, stop and turn around. Hartwig locked up the periscope and crouched next to his partner near the van’s back doors. Clipped to their belts were stun grenades – also known as flashbangs because of their blinding flash and deafening blast. An explosive entry had been authorized.

Darby watched the black van on the monitor. It still hadn’t moved.

Hartwig turned to her and said, ‘The two of you are to stay in here until the area is secured, understood?’

The van slowed down.

Hartwig gave the signal to his partner. The van’s back doors swung open.

The two SWAT officers jumped out into the light rain, leaving the back doors open. Darby moved out of her seat to get a better view.

SWAT officers were already positioned at the back of the Ford van, their gloved hands on the door – here came another SWAT officer running out from the woods, bringing up his pistol, targeting the driver’s side window.

Hartwig gave the hand signal. A SWAT officer yanked on the door handle and the van’s back doors open.

Hartwig tossed the flashbang grenade inside, and before Darby shut her eyes, she saw a man in a dark jacket sitting in front of a table holding some type of equipment full of small, blinking lights.

The grenade exploded in blinding light, the blast deafening. Hartwig came around and brought up his weapon, his laser scope targeted on the person’s back. He was still sitting in front of the table. He hadn’t moved, and his hands were hidden inside his jacket pockets.

‘HANDS ON TOP OF YOUR HEAD, DO IT NOW, PUT THEM UP AND DON’T MOVE.’

Traveler didn’t move.

Darby felt the van come to a sharp and sudden stop. Banville was out of his seat, moving past her. Hartwig rushed into the back of Traveler’s van.

‘GET YOUR HANDS UP IN THE AIR RIGHT NOW. DO IT.’

Hartwig threw Traveler to the floor.

Darby stepped outside, legs shaking from the time spent sitting. She wanted to be in there with the SWAT officer, wanted to see Traveler’s face and look into his eyes when he said Carol’s name.

Hartwig stepped out of the van, shaking his head. He said something to Banville.

Coop was standing next to her now. Traveler was lying on the floor. He wasn’t moving.

Banville was heading back.

‘What’s going on?’ Darby said.

‘It’s a dead body bound to a chair,’ Banville said. That’s what’s going on.’

‘What? The grenade couldn’t have killed him.’

‘He’s been dead for several hours,’ Banville said. ‘Someone strangled him.’

‘Then what’s with all that equipment?’

Banville didn’t answer. He had stepped back inside the van, the wall phone already pressed against his ear.

‘It’s got to be him,’ the FBI tech said behind her. ‘The listening devices are being picked up in that van. Look, there’s an L32 receiver in there.’

‘Maybe he’s using the equipment to transmit the signal somewhere else,’ his partner said.

The commotion and noise, and the sight of eight SWAT team members hovering around the van had drawn the neighbors out of their homes. They stood on the front steps, many of them standing in the rain, wanting to know what was going on.

‘Let’s secure the scene,’ Darby told Coop.

Standing across the street was a girl no older than eight. She was dressed in a yellow rain slicker and held her mother’s hand. The girl looked scared, on the verge of tears. Darby was watching her when the van exploded and blew the girl and her mother off the ground.

Chapter 44

An evacuation siren blared over the hospital speakers. Daniel Boyle pushed his way through the crowds of civilians, doctors and nurses running in all directions, people bumping into each other, some falling, everyone scrambling to find an exit, to get away from the dust and smoke filling the hallways.

The ICU waiting room was empty. The ICU doors were opened. Nobody was guarding Rachel’s room. The two cops responsible for watching her had either been called away or had decided to leave.

Boyle ran down the hallway. The ICU nurses had left their post. He was alone. He looked through the window to Rachel Swanson’s room. She was sleeping.

Boyle pushed open the door with his arm, careful about not leaving any fingerprints.

Hand already inside his breast pocket, he came back with the hypodermic. He clamped the plastic cap between his teeth, exposing the needle, his thumb drawing the plunger higher as he moved to the bed.

Boyle wished he could wake her up, wished he could watch Rachel scream one final time before she started convulsing.

The needle pierced the IV tube. Boyle pushed the air through the line.

A quick wipe of the line using his jacket cuff and he was moving back to the door. Hurry.

Cap back on the needle, the hypodermic tucked back inside his pocket. Hurry.

Out the door and walking swiftly down the hallway, nobody watching –

One of the hospital’s security staff was standing next to the nurse’s station. The man was dressed in a dark raincoat and wore an earpiece and a lapel mike. He was looking around the space, searching for the wounded when he spotted Boyle.

Boyle ran to him. ‘Everyone’s gone,’ he said. ‘It’s all clear.’

An alarm sounded from behind the front desk.

The security man turned to look at the monitors. ‘What’s going on?’

Boyle pretended to study the numbers on the monitor. ‘One of the patients has gone into cardiac arrest,’ Boyle said. ‘I’ll take care of it. Make sure everyone gets to the stairwells.’

‘You sure I can’t help you?’

‘No, get going. I can take it from here.’

The security man didn’t move.

Very calmly, as if reaching for a pen, Boyle slipped his hand inside his white coat and undid the snap for the shoulder holster. He’d drop the rent-a-cop if he had to. Drop him first and then run for the stairwell.

No need. The security man had left. Boyle watched him leave, then turned the corner and headed for the bathroom. He grabbed his backpack from the trash and made his way toward a cop directing people into the stairwell. Boyle blended into the crowd of civilians and hospital staff.

The morning was filled with rain and sirens. He jogged down Cambridge Street and took the stairs for the T station.

Yesterday, on his way home from Belham, he purchased an electronic T pass at South Station. He swiped the pass through the magnetic card reader, leaving no fingerprints, and stood with the rest of the people watching the chaos below them. Smoke drifted from the crumbled ruins of the delivery garage. Fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars were coming from all directions. Shards of glass and pieces of brick and concrete covered Cambridge Street. Some of the store windows, Boyle saw, had been blown apart by the blast.

When the train pulled up, Boyle grabbed a window seat, took out his BlackBerry and typed a message to Richard: ‘Done.’

To pass the time, Boyle thought about what he would do to Carol Cranmore once she stepped outside her room. Sooner or later, she would come out for her food. They all did.

But he couldn’t wait forever, not now. The preparations for leaving were already made. He would have to kill them all soon – tonight, maybe.