The Goliath Run, page 17
“You’re assuming that the woman is traveling in a circle,” he said over his shoulder.
Dugan was sending a text and he finished before looking up. “I’m not assuming anything. I know she’s traveling in a circle. You’ve got eyes, don’t you?”
Bell traced the route with his forefinger. “So you’re saying she drove to Greenfield, then she drove to Elmira, then to Hershey.”
“Yes,” Dugan said impatiently. “She called from those three towns.”
“If she’s got the little girl, then that means she’s dragged the kid across three states so far. I don’t buy that. Why would she risk a routine traffic stop with the kid in the car?” Bell tapped his finger on the map, on a spot roughly in the center of Dugan’s circle. “What if they’re holed up here someplace? She drives to Greenfield, makes a call, and goes home. Drives to Elmira, makes the call, and goes home. And then Hershey, same thing. It’s a circle, but she’s not moving in a circle. She’s operating from the hub.”
Dugan shook his head. “Why would she be doing that?”
“To confuse us.” Bell smiled. “And it’s working. Right, Special Agent Dugan? The question remains though—why those towns? Is it random, simply because they’re far apart? Is that all it is?”
“You’re forgetting I’m not buying your fucking hub theory,” Dugan told him.
Bell kept looking at the map. “You ever play Keep Away when you were a kid, Dugan? You’re in the middle and your buddies are tossing the ball back and forth and they’ve got you running every which way. You ever play that?”
“No,” Dugan said. He was looking at his phone again, not all that interested in the conversation. “I wasn’t into playground games.”
“Well, that’s what she’s doing with us,” Bell said. “She’s playing Keep Away.”
FORTY-ONE
Jo was on the road for an hour before she could allow herself to relax. She’d been relatively calm, making the calls in Greenfield, and in Elmira, but Hershey had rattled her. She had never anticipated Sam Jackson not answering his phone. How could she? Who would anticipate a parent whose child had been abducted not bothering to take a call from the person responsible?
Her initial suspicion that the FBI was behind it didn’t hold water, she realized now. How would they benefit from that? No, they wanted Jo on the phone, as often and for as long as possible. This was Sam Jackson, she knew. The notion that he wouldn’t answer infuriated her. It would have lowered her opinion of him even further, if it were possible to go any lower.
She was on a two-lane highway, heading east, approaching the little town of East Stroudsburg when she remembered the clothes. On the edge of town, she came to a strip mall and pulled in, parking the GMC in the rear corner of the lot behind the stores.
She went into a Target and picked up two pairs of jeans, some tees and some underwear and socks, as well as a nightgown. Size nine. She grabbed whatever she saw first; she wouldn’t allow herself to think about what would look good on the girl, what she might like, what was currently in fashion for ten-year-olds. She’d considered those things when shopping for Grace in the past—for Christmas or birthdays or just for fun—and she wouldn’t consider them now. Or ever again.
Sam Jackson’s refusal to answer his phone was still on her mind as she stood in line to pay. Things weren’t progressing the way she had imagined. Looking at the bundle of clothes in her arms, she realized that things weren’t progressing at all. It was a standoff and Sam Jackson was calling the shots.
She laid the clothes on the counter. The cashier was a heavy woman, with eyebrow piercings and a gregarious manner.
“Find everything you need for your little one?” she asked as she rang up the merchandise.
“Yeah,” Jo replied absently.
“On your Target card?”
“Cash.”
“Cash money,” the woman said. “You the last of your breed, honey.”
Jo paid and headed for the exit. There was a glassed-in foyer leading out, with pay phones along the wall. Jo pushed through the first door, hesitated, looking up. No cameras, not there in the foyer. She paused for maybe a three count then pulled the paper from her jacket pocket and dialed the number. She kept her back to the store and any cameras that might be inside. The phone rang twice and the woman answered, the voice somewhat familiar. They had talked before, briefly, two days ago.
“Rachel Jackson?” Jo asked. She pulled the second sheet of paper from her pocket.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“You know who it is,” Jo told her. “So you guys think I don’t have your daughter? I’m going to read you the numbers off her phone. The first number is for someone named Suzanne. Yours is next, I just dialed it. Her father’s is third and you know I’ve dialed it. Next is Amanda.” Jo read the number and kept going. Cecily. Amelia. Britney. Grandma. She read the names and she read the numbers, one by one.
“Okay!” Rachel Jackson blurted out. “I believe you. I’ve always believed you. Tell me where she is.
Please.” “She’s safe,” Jo said. “You tell me what the fuck happened today. Why didn’t he answer?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit,” Rachel said. “He had his phone off. He was doing an interview, this stupid campaign.”
“So your campaign is more important than your daughter?”
“It’s not my campaign! And it’s not more important than Vanessa. Not to me.”
Jo heard shouting in the background. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the park. I had to get out of there. Is Vanessa with you? Can I talk to her, please? Please?”
“No, you can’t,” Jo said. “You want her back, tell your husband to meet my demands. Three things. No negotiating.”
“What things? Tell me!”
“Ask your husband,” Jo said and hung up.
She went out the door and walked around the building, her head down, the bag with her purchases held up, shielding the side of her face against whatever video surveillance the small-town mall might employ. It had been a stupid impulse, calling like that. When she got into the truck, she swung the vehicle in a wide circle and drove out the way she’d come in.
“Sonofabitch,” she realized when she was on the road. “He never told her either.”
FORTY-TWO
After the woman hung up, Rachel called Sam at once and told him what had happened. As she spoke to him she was hurrying through the park, dodging the rollerbladers, heading back home.
“She said three things again, Sam,” she said sharply into the phone. “What are they?”
“I told you. I have no idea.”
“Don’t you lie to me,” Rachel said, trying to remain calm. “Tell me what she wants. Tell me what we need to do.”
“What who wants?” Sam asked. “You just got an anonymous phone call and you’re all wound up about it. How do you know it was the same woman?”
“I just explained that part,” Rachel said. “Why won’t you tell me what she wants?”
“We’ll talk when you get here.” The phone in her hand went dead.
When she got home Dugan and Heyward were waiting for her, Heyward sitting by his computer, talking on his cell. Sam had changed into a suit and was standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee. He had evidently given Rachel’s cell number to the agents.
“Where did she call from?” Rachel asked.
Dugan indicated Heyward. “We’re contacting your server. Tell me exactly what she said.”
“She had the numbers from Vanessa’s phone,” Rachel said. “Mine, Sam’s, my mother’s. All her friends.”
“What did she want?”
Rachel took a moment to gather herself. “Well, she wanted to tell me that. As proof that she actually has Vanessa. It does prove it, right? Nobody else could have those numbers.”
“It doesn’t prove anything,” Sam said. “The phone was missing for hours before it turned up. Who knows who had access to it?”
“Why are you doing this?” Rachel demanded. “Why are you doing this, Sam? They’ve got Vanessa and they want to talk to us.”
“I don’t know that they have her,” Sam said. “And even if they did—I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
Rachel stared at him a moment before turning on Dugan. “She said three things. She wants three things. She said that the other day. Remember?”
Dugan looked at Sam, who shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t tell you what that’s about.” He paused. “But I do have an idea. Why don’t you guys track this woman down and bring her in? Why is that so difficult? You’re holed up here while she’s taking her little road show to half the towns in America.”
Before Dugan could reply to that, Heyward got off the phone. “They want a warrant,” he said.
“Who does?” Rachel demanded.
“Your server,” Dugan said. “We expected that. We needed one for Sam’s phone too.”
“Why don’t you already have it?” Rachel asked.
Dugan didn’t say anything. After a moment Heyward did. “Well, she wasn’t calling your phone.”
“She just did,” Rachel said.
FORTY-THREE
There was no market trip scheduled for the following day so when Jo got home she and Henry unloaded the produce she hadn’t sold and carried it into the warehouse. As they worked she told the old man about what had happened in Hershey, and in East Stroudsburg afterwards.
“Did you tell the mother that she’s okay?” was the first thing Henry asked.
“What?” Jo asked. “Yeah, I guess so.” She hefted a bushel of red potatoes onto her knee and carried it inside.
“Either you did or you didn’t,” Henry said when she returned. He was leaning against the back of the truck. Listening to her, he hadn’t been doing much work.
“She knows the kid’s okay or I wouldn’t be calling.”
“How does she know that?” Henry asked. “Put yourself in her shoes. How could she know that?”
“I don’t want to be in her shoes. I want to know why they’re fucking us around. He doesn’t have his phone on? What is that?”
Henry sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I know one thing,” Jo said. “It’s not her doing this, it’s him. She was desperate to talk; she wanted to know what I wanted.”
“Did you tell her?”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because she can’t give me what I want.” Jo grabbed another basket.
“But she would.”
“Probably,” Jo said. “But he’s running the show. So she’s not helping much—and neither are you, Henry,” she said over her shoulder as she went into the warehouse.
He pitched in then. When they were finished Jo nodded toward the house. “She okay?”
“What do you mean by that? Is she okay with her circumstances?”
“Stop that. I mean—she’s eating and all that?”
“She eats.”
“Good.”
“I took that little TV in to her,” Henry said. “With my VCR and a few movies.”
“At least you didn’t take her into town to the show,” Jo said. “Oh, I bought some clothes for her. They’re in the cab. You can give them to her.”
“You can give them to her.” Henry walked away, ending the discussion.
The girl was watching a movie when Jo unlocked the door and let herself into the room. Jo glanced at the set, propped atop the dresser. The movie was The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Well, the kid wasn’t going to find any Harry Potter in Henry’s collection. Jo would bet she’d never encountered a VCR before either.
“Hey,” Jo said.
The little girl looked at her and then away. Jo tossed the bag with the clothes onto the bed.
“I got you some clothes. Jeans and stuff. Leave what you’re wearing when you take a bath and I’ll wash it.”
The kid kept her eyes on the set. “Did you talk to my father again?”
“No,” Jo said. She waited, deciding. “I talked to your Mom.”
The girl’s eyes lit up and she turned to Jo. “What did she say?”
“She didn’t say anything. I just told her something and that was it.”
The face fell. “She didn’t ask about me?”
“Yeah, she asked about you.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her you were okay.”
The little girl was skeptical. “Did you for real? I’m worried about her. I don’t know if she can handle something like this.”
Well shit, Jo thought. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She looked at the TV, where Lee Marvin was menacing a gangly Jimmy Stewart. “You’re not worried about your father?”
“No.”
“All right.” Jo turned to go but then stopped. “You want to have a bath?”
“I had one already. The guy makes me.”
“Well, there’s a nightgown there.”
“Am I supposed to thank you?”
“No,” Jo said. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
Jo stood in the open doorway and watched the girl, who was staring at the little screen, her attention rapt, as if a sixty-year-old western was the only thing in the world of interest to her. Ignoring Jo, just to show her she could.
“Who’s Suzanne?” Jo asked.
The girl quickly looked over. It seemed the question had surprised her. “She’s our nanny.”
“Okay,” Jo said and she left, locking the door behind her. She went into the kitchen and sat at the table. The mail was there and she went through it absently, without seeing what she was reading, thinking about a girl born into wealth and privilege, with everything life could offer before her. Thinking of why the first contact on the girl’s phone would be her nanny.
FORTY-FOUR
When Sam went to the ABN studios to tape the Rivera show that afternoon, Dugan went with him. Heyward, with his laptop, tagged along. Dugan advised Sam to keep his phone turned on, his tone suggesting that he wasn’t all that happy with the way the situation had played out earlier. Sam, little concerned with Dugan’s happiness level, never responded.
Ron Rivera wasn’t thrilled to have Sam hijack the show once again. He’d complained about it earlier in a phone call to Bobby Holmes.
“Since when are we his campaign tool?” he’d asked.
“The kidnapping is a huge story,” Bobby had replied. “And Sam’s not talking to NBC or ABC or CNN, just us and Fox so far. As long as the kid’s missing, we give him the air time he wants.”
“You’re saying I don’t have to let him babble on about running for Congress?”
Bobby had laughed. “If you can figure a way to shut him up, go for it.”
The producer Kevin started kissing Sam’s ass the moment he walked through the door, and never stopped. Sam was given the run of things, leaving Rivera once more with the feeling that he really didn’t need to be there. They could have propped up a mannequin in his chair and had Kevin lob a few softball questions Sam’s way from the booth. Rivera decided to stay out of the way, putting up with it until it was nearly time to roll. A couple of minutes before they went to tape, though, he leaned in toward Sam.
“Be nice if you could give us a little more on the situation with your daughter this time, Sam,” he said. “That’s the story here.”
Sam started to say something and then stopped. “Okay, Ron,” he said after a moment. “Say, is Ron really your name—or is it some bastardized version of the real thing?”
“It’s a bastardized version of Ronald.”
They rolled tape and Rivera asked for an update on Vanessa. “Have you heard anything at all from the kidnappers?”
“We’ve heard from people claiming to be the kidnappers,” Sam replied. “Quite a number of them, in fact. Most of them, probably all of them, are pretenders, looking to take advantage of this situation to line their own pockets. I’m coordinating the investigation myself, working closely with the FBI, of course. Until such time that somebody can come up with proof that they have my daughter, there’s very little we can do. I have neither the time nor the inclination to listen to pretenders. But we are vigilant, we are following every lead, and we will be successful. In a situation fraught with uncertainty, there is one thing I can guarantee—I will get my daughter back safely.”
“Any theories on who might have taken her?”
“The good news is,” Sam began slowly, “that we can assume that this isn’t sexually motivated, nor is it the work of some deranged madman, as was the case in Laureltown last month. This is political through and through. Look at the timing. I’m known as a guy who calls a spade a spade. I’m known as a guy who isn’t afraid to stand up and tell people that this country is going to hell in a handbasket, that we’ve become a nation of weaklings. Do you know who that scares? The weaklings, of course. And the cowards. And so—when I announce that I intend on November the third to take my message to Washington, that scares the hell out of the weaklings. That scares the hell out of the cowards. On TV, I’m just some guy flapping his gums. But in Washington, I’m somebody who can enact change, who can begin to move this country back to where it was.”
Rivera jumped in now. “You’re saying that your daughter has been abducted by a person or persons who disagree with your politics?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not entirely,” Rivera said. “So what do these people want?”
“To remove me from the political stage, of course.”
“Someone has said that to you?”
“We’re getting into an area of the investigation that I really can’t comment on at this time,” Sam said. “And to be clear I’m not saying that Frank Barton or anyone associated with his campaign has had anything to do with this.”
“Hold on,” Rivera said. “Your opponent Frank Barton? You’re not suggesting that he is involved?”
“You’re not listening, Ronald,” Sam said. “I just told you that I do not think he’s involved.”
“Then why bring him up?”
