Criminal Enterprise, page 27
Andrea could feel the panic starting to rise again, and she forced herself to breathe slowly. Dad’s saved hostages before, she told herself. You’re going to get free. She worked on the duct tape on her wrists. Come on, damn it. Felt the truck start to speed up and imagined how Tomlin would react when she pointed the gun at him. She wondered if she really could kill him.
Then the truck shifted, and Andrea was thrown across the rear compartment. By the time she could regain her position, the truck was slowing again. Then it stopped. She listened to Tomlin breathing heavily in the front seat, and then he turned off the engine, and she heard him walk around to the back. He opened the liftgate and looked in at her.
He was bleeding. He’d been shot in the stomach, off to one side, and his coat was matted with thick red-black blood. His hand, too, was bloody, and he pressed it to the hole in his coat and winced as he looked down at her, his eyes duller now but still filled with hate.
Andrea stared up at him. He wasn’t holding a gun. Just get out and start running, she screamed at herself. He’s shot. He won’t catch you.
Too late. Tomlin reached in and grabbed her. “Come on.” She swore at him through the gag as he wrenched her to her feet. They were in a parking lot, she saw, outside a motel. Shady, low-lying buildings and fast-food restaurants in the distance, empty lots and dark warehouses closer. The parking lot was nearly empty, and the snow swirled around her.
Tomlin dragged her to a motel room and shoved her through the door. He walked her to an unmade bed and pushed her down onto it. Here it comes, she thought, squeezing her eyes closed. But her coach left her there, and she squirmed onto her side when she heard him moving around the room. He locked all three locks on the door, and then he staggered to the other bed and collapsed down onto it. He stared up at the ceiling, breathing hard, his bloody hand pressing down onto his wound.
He’s hurt bad, Andrea thought. He’s got to die soon. She struggled with the duct tape but couldn’t get it to give any more. She couldn’t struggle too much, anyway, or else he’d figure out what she was doing.
The tape wasn’t giving. Crap. Andrea felt the panic rise again, and she screwed her eyes tight and forced herself not to cry. You’re stronger than this jerk, she told herself. You have to survive.
120
STEVENS WOKE UP Nancy. She groaned into the phone. “What time is it?”
“Where’s Andrea?” he said. “Is she in her room?”
“What?” The tension in his voice seemed to jolt her. She was wide awake now. “What are you talking about, Kirk?”
“Check her room.” He was in Tomlin’s kitchen, though he had no idea how he’d arrived there. The whole room was blurry white light. “Hurry, Nancy. Please.”
“I’m going,” she said, fear creeping into her voice. “What’s going on, Kirk?”
“She snuck out to Heather’s,” he said. “After I left. Tomlin came home, and there was a shoot-out. No one’s seen Andrea since.”
Nancy gasped. “Oh my God.”
“She’s probably in her room. She snuck back in while you were sleeping, and she’s pretending she never left. It’s fine.”
Of course it’s fine, Stevens told himself. What the hell would Tomlin want with a fifteen-year-old girl? He heard Nancy call out Andrea’s name. Heard her knock on her bedroom door. He waited, his whole body tense. Then Nancy started to cry. “She’s not here, Kirk.”
Stevens steadied himself on the granite counter beside him. “Must have tried to walk home,” he said. “I’ll search the neighborhood. Pick her up on the way.”
Nancy sobbed into the phone.
“You keep an eye out for her. In case she beats me. Okay?”
He waited. She sniffed. “Okay.”
Stevens ended the call and stood in the blurry kitchen. Someone said his name. He blinked and found Windermere beside him. “I talked to the kids outside,” she said. “One girl—Megan something—said she called Andrea, told her to sneak in. Nobody can remember her leaving.”
Stevens clenched his fists tight. “Son of a bitch.”
Windermere touched his arm. “That doesn’t mean she’s with Tomlin, Kirk. None of the city cops saw her in Tomlin’s truck, either.”
“She just disappeared,” he said.
“She’s on her way home,” said Windermere. “Let’s drive the route.”
121
STEVENS TRIED ANDREA’S cell phone again. Got her voice-mail message, so chipper and upbeat it took his breath away. He swallowed and left her a message—“I’m not mad. Please call.”—and then put his phone down and concentrated on the road.
They drove slowly, peering out at the houses and the beached, snowbound cars. The blizzard had subsided a little, and visibility was better, but they saw nobody on the sidewalks as they worked a grid pattern between Summit Hill and Lexington.
After an hour or so of slow searching, Stevens pulled up outside his house. Light shone from almost every window, as though Nancy Stevens had tried to make her home a beacon for her missing daughter. Stevens parked and climbed out of the car, Windermere behind him, and together they walked to the house.
Nancy was pacing the living room. He knew as soon as he saw her that Andrea hadn’t shown. She stopped pacing and looked at him, caught his expression, and swayed on her feet. Stevens rushed to catch her, and she held him tight, her fingers tearing at his sleeves. “Where is she, Kirk?”
“We’ll find her,” he said, helping her down to the couch. “I promise, we’ll find her.”
Windermere caught Stevens’s eye. “I’ll keep looking.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said.
She shook her head. “Stay with your wife.”
Stevens stared at her. The thought of sitting at home, helpless, while his daughter was gone seemed perverse, but Nancy gripped his arms tighter, and he realized he couldn’t leave her behind. “God damn it.” Stevens hesitated. Then he tossed his keys to Windermere. “Take the Jeep at least.”
Windermere caught the keys. She looked back at him briefly, and then she walked out the door.
122
WINDERMERE DROVE the Cherokee back toward Summit Hill, searching at every streetlight and intersection for Stevens’s pretty blond daughter. One plus side to being alone, she thought. Nobody else to worry about.
All the same, Windermere knew she was worried for Andrea Stevens. More than worried. She was scared. The girl wasn’t at Tomlin’s house with the rest of the kids. She wasn’t at Stevens’s house with her parents. Where the hell could she be?
The simple answer was the scariest. Windermere pushed it away.
Maybe she’d panicked and run off somewhere. Maybe she was hiding in the hedges around Tomlin’s house, or down in the ravine or something. Maybe she got hungry and went to McDonald’s.
Or maybe she was hurt. She caught a stray bullet and crawled someplace secret. She’d have left a trail, though, blood or footprints. And someone would have seen her and tried to help.
Carter Tomlin was missing. Andrea Stevens was missing. The simplest answer was the worst answer. Tomlin could have shoved her in the back of the truck. It was dark outside, and the truck was moving fast. Maybe she had her head down. Plenty of reasons the uniforms might have missed her. The notion made Windermere sick.
The cops riddled that truck with bullets, Windermere thought. She had a sudden vision of an abandoned SUV somewhere, Stevens’s daughter dead in the backseat, Tomlin, once again, nowhere to be found.
Knock it off. Be positive. You’re going to find this girl.
She drove until she’d looped through the neighborhood three or four times, and then she drove back to Tomlin’s mansion. A cop—the same cop who’d given her the bum’s rush the first time—spotted the Jeep and came hauling ass to the middle of the road. Windermere showed him her badge again, and he waved her through, then chased after her. Windermere slowed and rolled down her window.
“Windermere, right?” the cop said, panting. “Been looking for you. Something out back you might want to see.”
Windermere followed the cop up the driveway into Tomlin’s backyard, where the cop gestured into the snow. “Down the ravine,” he said. “Follow the trail. Maybe you make something of it.”
Windermere started to reply, but the cop was already turning back to the road. She set out quickly into the snow, stepping deep into the drifts, the snow falling into her boots and soaking her feet. There was a weird kind of trail parallel to her own—several trails, actually. Big footprints, bigger footprints, and then a kind of Morse code track: long dashes and short dots, two tracks side by side. Windermere examined them, didn’t get it. She skirted the footprints, and followed them to a narrow concrete stairway headed down a dark slope.
She descended the stairs and came out at a narrow laneway. A car parked nearby, Dragan Medic’s silver Honda Civic. It looked snowbound in the deep drifts of the alley, though the patch under the front tires was rubbed through and bare to the pavement. The driver’s-side doors were wide open.
Windermere circled the car. She looked down at the front tires again, the black pavement beneath. He got stuck, she realized. Tried to drive off in this thing and couldn’t do it.
She bent into the open driver’s door and peered inside the cabin, half expecting to find Andrea Stevens curled up and hiding. No luck. Windermere stepped back from the Civic and let her eyes wander. Then she saw it. It was a small footprint, much smaller than any she’d tracked through the yard. A girl’s footprint, or a child’s. Windermere stared at it for a second before everything came together.
Tomlin had dragged the girl back to the Civic. Stuffed her in the car, but got stuck in the snow. So he dragged her up to the SUV. Must have thrown her in the back before he drove off. Windermere stared at the car, her mind racing, the hole in her stomach growing larger. Tomlin’s got her, she thought. How in the hell am I going to tell Stevens?
123
THE NIGHT CLERK at the Timberline Motel yawned and stared through the empty lobby at the snowy night beyond. It had been a quiet night, quieter than most, even for this time of year. Only four or five rooms filled; really, no need for a night clerk at all.
The clerk put down his paperback, yawned again, and glanced at the TV in the corner. The news kept running the same story: some psychopath killing people down in Summit Hill. The guy in the picture actually looked kind of familiar. He was a tall guy, about middle age, with dark brown hair. An anonymous-looking dude. White-collar. Not the kind of guy you’d figure would kill a bunch of people in the good part of town.
Unit 42. That was it. The clerk had seen the guy earlier when he’d taken out the trash, a high-class-looking guy with a smoking-hot chick in tow, the girl’s hair neon pink and spiky, her face breathless and flushed like she couldn’t wait to get back to the bedroom.
Christ, she was a hottie. He’d watched her as he made his way out to the dumpster and back, more than a little jealous. The chick looked younger than he was, for God’s sake.
The TV was showing something new, a shot of a pretty teenager, a high school picture or something. “Fifteen-year-old Andrea Stevens,” the tagline read. Then they showed a picture of the older guy again. A killer and a kidnapper. Probably a fucking pedophile, too.
The clerk turned up the volume. The reporter was saying the man had disappeared with the girl after the Summit Hill shoot-out. He was driving a beat-up Lincoln Navigator and was heavily armed. Appealing for leads, blah, blah, blah. But they kept the picture of the guy on-screen, and the resemblance was fucking uncanny.
The clerk stood from his seat, stretching, and pulled out the logbook from under the counter. It was a three-ring binder with forms for every guest, first name, last name, credit card information. The clerk paged through to unit 42. Checked the registry. The guy’s name was Brill, Roger Brill. He’d paid cash. Listed his vehicle as a Jaguar XJR, black.
On the TV, they were saying something about a guy named Tomlin. Tomlin, not Brill. Could have been an alias, though. The guy did pay cash. He’d been here for a few days. Why would a guy rent a shitty motel room when he had a Summit Hill mansion nearby?
The clerk looked out the window, and then back at the TV. The anchor had switched stories by now and was talking about last night’s hockey game, the Wild losing again. Outside the lobby, the night looked damn cold. The clerk figured he could go out and check the lot for that Navigator, but he’d more than likely find himself staring at a black Jaguar, some out-of-towner on a little bedroom vacation with his secretary or something. Why bother?
With a sigh, he sat down again and reached for the TV remote. Switched off the news and found a decent B movie that promised explosions and tits. He sat back in his chair and watched the opening credits roll, wondering what the guy in 42 was doing with that punk chick right now.
—
TOMLIN LAY ON his back on the motel room bed, his hands pressed against his bullet wound, his breathing shallow and his mind numb. On the bed beside him, Andrea Stevens shifted position and whimpered through her gag. Tomlin watched her for a moment.
A few hours ago, he’d stood in this room with Tricia and a million five, cash, a fast car parked outside, a ticket to an easy getaway. Now here he was, broke and back in the same shitty motel room, with a fifteen-year-old hostage and a bad bullet wound. A giant step backward. Devastating.
You need to do something, his mind screamed. You need to get your wound treated, and you need to ditch that Navigator and get moving to someplace where the whole state isn’t seeing your face on the ten-o’clock news. And you need to figure out what to do with the girl.
Tomlin looked over at Stevens’s daughter again. The police would have figured out he’d stolen her by now. Kirk Stevens would know. The dumb cop would be emptying his 401(k) trying to work up a ransom. Tomlin could swap the girl for the money and a plane ticket somewhere warm. Maybe chase down Tricia while he was at it, make the little bitch even up.
All good. Except he was dying. He could feel it. The bullet wound burned his insides like a hot poker, and he’d bled, black and viscous, all over his coat and the truck. No doctor would save him, even if he could. Not without calling the police.
There’s no way to fix this. You’ll be dead by tomorrow.
He watched Andrea Stevens, asleep on the opposite bed, and felt hate well up inside him, envy for her perfect life. He thought about the wreckage of his home, pictured Heather’s terrified, traumatized face. She’ll never recover from this, he knew. She’ll never trust anyone again.
Tomlin ached for his daughter, a sudden, heartsick pain. He imagined her growing up without him, silent and afraid, and he felt a terrible guilt, and regret. On the opposite bed, Stevens’s daughter groaned and rolled onto her side. Tomlin studied her, her perfect features creased with worry and discomfort. She’ll walk out of here tomorrow, he thought. I’ll die in this motel room and the police will find her eventually, and a couple of months down the road, she’ll have forgotten about her scary night with crazy Coach Tomlin. She’ll live a long, happy life, and I’ll be just a speed bump.
It didn’t seem fair. Tomlin wanted Andrea to suffer as Heather had to suffer. He wanted Stevens to grieve as he grieved. He wanted to share his own misery with the BCA agent.
The girl could be a statement. One last terrible score. The thought gave him comfort as he lay there, blood-soaked and waiting for the dawn. I’ll kill her, he thought. And I’ll make Stevens watch.
124
WINDERMERE STOOD ON the sidewalk outside Stevens’s house, staring back through the living room windows to where the BCA agent and his wife had camped out. Man, she thought. I could use a cigarette right now.
She’d smoked for only a year or so, her first year at Stetson Law, when the pressures both external and inside her head had threatened to overwhelm her. She hadn’t liked smoking; it felt dirty, and weak, but it sure as hell helped with the nerves, and now, pacing the sidewalk in front of Stevens’s home, Windermere felt more nervous than she had in years.
You think you’re scared. Imagine how Stevens feels.
She’d delivered the news about Andrea herself. Called Mathers to kick-start an AMBER Alert, updated the Saint Paul city cops hanging around Tomlin’s mansion, and then forced herself to drive across to Lexington in Stevens’s Jeep, trying to figure out how exactly to tell him.
“You want to come outside for this one,” she’d told him, when he met her at the front door, his eyes an open question. Stevens had glanced back at his wife and stepped onto the porch, and she’d drawn a deep breath and just told him. He hadn’t said anything at first. He’d inhaled sharply, and then kind of nodded, off-balance.
“You’re sure.”
“The whole city’s looking for her.” She put her hand on his shoulder again, and squeezed. “We’ll find her.”
She doubted Stevens heard. He’d stared out at the street and muttered something to himself, and then he’d gone back inside. A few seconds later, Windermere heard Nancy burst into fresh tears in the living room.
Now Stevens’s little house was filled with police from every force in the region. BCA, FBI, Saint Paul and Minneapolis PD, a couple of sheriff’s deputies from the counties, all had converged in the predawn hours to try and hammer out a strategy. Right now, Windermere knew, police were combing the Twin Cities for Tomlin’s Lincoln Navigator, but there were only so many officers and so much ground to cover. Windermere paced, wearing a path through the snow, feeling powerless and jumpy and scared.
A black Chevy Tahoe appeared at the end of the block. It cruised up to Stevens’s house and pulled to a stop at the curb. Windermere watched as Drew Harris climbed out of the driver’s seat. The Special Agent in Charge looked impeccable, even at so ungodly an hour, the picture of an FBI senior officer. He greeted Windermere with a nod. “Your BCA agent’s inside?”
