Sight could be distracting. The dark was a good place to think.
She tried to keep her body loose, riding bumps, and wondered about Marc's behavior right before they left. The cop at the house had, no doubt, said something that shook him. About her? Probably. She wondered what exactly he had said and how she should react.
Didn't matter now. They were on their way. She had to concentrate on the task at hand.
Rachel was falling back into a familiar role. There was a pang here.
She missed being with the FBI. She had loved her job. Yes, perhaps it was all she had. It was more than her escape--it was the only thing she really enjoyed doing. Some people pushed through the nine-to-five so they could go home and live their lives. For Rachel, it was the opposite.
After all these years apart, here was something that she and Marc had in common: They'd both found careers they loved. She wondered about that. She wondered if there was a connection, if their careers had become some kind of true-love substitute. Or was that looking at it too deeply?
Marc still had his job. She did not. Did that make her more desperate?
No. His child was gone. Game, set, match.
In the darkness of the trunk, she smeared her face with black makeup, enough to take the shine away. The car started climbing upward. Her gear was packed and ready.
She thought about Hugh Reilly, the son of a bitch.
Her breakup with Marc--and everything after--was his fault. Hugh had been her dearest friend in college. That was what he wanted, he told her. Just to be her friend. No pressure. He understood that she had a boyfriend. Had Rachel been naive or purposefully naive? Men who want to "just be friends" do so because they hope to be next in line, as though friendship were an on-deck circle, a good place for practice swings before heading to the plate. Hugh had called her in Italy that night with nothing but the best of intentions. "I just think you should know," he said, "as your friend." Right. And then he told her what Marc had done at some stupid frat party.
Yes, enough blaming herself. Enough blaming Marc. Hugh Reilly. If that son of a bitch had just minded his own business, what would her life be like right now? She couldn't say. Ah, but what had her life become? That was easier to answer. She drank too much. She had a bad temper. Her stomach bothered her more than it should. She spent too much time reading TV Guide. And let's not forget the piece de resistance: She had gotten herself ensnared in a self-destructive relationship-- and gotten herself out of it in the worst way possible.
The car veered and climbed upward, forcing Rachel to roll back. A moment or two later, the car stopped. Rachel lifted her head. The cruel musings fled. It was game time.
From the old fort's lookout tower, some two hundred fifty feet above the Hudson River, Heshy had one of the most stunning views of the Jersey Palisades, stretching from the Tappan Zee Bridge on the right to the George Washington Bridge on his left. He actually took the time to appreciate it before he got to the matter at hand.
As though on cue, Seidman took the exit off the Henry Hudson Parkway. No one followed. Heshy kept his eyes on the road. No car slowed. No car sped up. No one was trying to make it look as though they weren't following.
He spun around, lost sight of the car for a brief moment, then spotted it again as it came back into view. He could see Seidman in the driver's seat. No one else was visible. That didn't mean much--someone could be ducking down in the back--but it was a start.
Seidman parked the car. He turned off the engine and opened the door. Heshy lifted the microphone to his mouth.
"Pavel, you ready?"
"Yes."
"He's alone," he said, speaking now for Lydia's benefit. "Proceed."
"Park near the cafe. Get out and walk up to the circle."
The circle, I knew, was Margaret Corbin Circle. When I reached the clearing, the first thing I spotted, even in the p ark, was the bright colors of the children's playground near Fort Washington Avenue at 190th Street. The colors still leapt out. I'd always liked this playground, but tonight the yellows and blues taunted me. I thought of myself as a city boy. When I lived near here, I'd imagined staying in this neighborhood-- too sophisticated was I for the vanilla suburbs--and of course, that meant that I would bring my children to this very park. I took that as an omen, but I didn't know of what.
The phone squawked. "There's a subway station on the left."
"Okay."
"Take the stairs down toward the elevator."
I might have suspected this. He would put me on the elevator and then on the A train. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for Rachel to follow me.
"Are you on the stairs?"
"Yes."
At the bottom, you'll see a gate on the right."
I knew where it was. It led to a smaller park and was locked except for weekends. It had been set aside as something of a small picnic area. There were Ping-Pong tables, though you had to bring your own net and paddles to play. There were benches and eating areas. Kids used it for birthday parties.
The wrought-iron gate, I remember, was always locked.
"I'm there," I said.
"Make sure no one sees you. Push open the gate. Slip through and quickly close it."
I peered inside. The park was black. Distant streetlights reached out and gave the area no more than a dull glow. The duffel bag felt heavy. I adjusted it up my shoulder. I looked behind me now. No one. I looked to my left. The subway elevators were still. I put my hand on the gate door. The padlock had been cut. I gave the area one more quick glance because that was what the robotic voice had told me to do.
No sign of Rachel.
The gate creaked when I pushed it open. The echo ripped through the still night. I slipped through the opening and let the dark swallow me whole.
Rachel felt the car rock as Marc got out.
She made herself wait a full minute, which felt like two hours. When she thought that it was probably safe, Rachel lifted the trunk an inch and peeked out.
She saw no one.
Rachel had a gun with her, a fed-issue Clock .22 40-caliber semiautomatic, and she carried her night-vision goggles, Rigel 3501 military grade Gen. 2+. The Palm Pilot that could read the Q-Logger transmitter was in her pocket.
She doubted that anyone would see her, but she still only opened the trunk wide enough so she could roll out. She huddled down low. Her hand reached back and grabbed the semiautomatic and night-vision goggles. Then she quietly closed the trunk.
Field operations had always been her favorite--or at least, the training for them. There had been very few missions that required this sort of cloak-and-dagger reconnaissance. For the most part, stakeout s were high-tech. You had vans and spy planes and fiber-optics. You rarely found yourself crawling through the night in black clothes and greasepaint.
She made herself small against the back tire. In the distance, she saw Marc heading up the drive. She put the gun in its holster and strapped the night-vision goggles to her belt. Keeping low, Rachel moved up the grass to higher ground. There was still enough light. She didn't need the goggles yet.
A sliver of moon sliced through the sky. There were no stars tonight. Up ahead, she could see that Marc had the cell phone near his ear. The duffel bag was on his shoulder. Rachel looked around, saw no one. Would the drop take place here? It wasn't a bad place, if you had a planned escape route. She started to think about the possibilities.
Fort Tryon was hilly. The secret would be to try to get higher. She started climbing and was just about to settle in when Marc exited the park.
Damn. She'd have to move again.
Rachel commando-crawled down the hill. The grass was prickly and smelled like hay, the cause being, she assumed, the recent water shortage. She tried to keep her eyes on Marc, but she lost him when he left the park grounds. She took a risk and moved quicker. At the park gate, she ducked behind a stone pillar.
Marc was there. But not for very long.
With the phone back to his ear, Marc veered to t
he left and vanished down the steps leading to the A train.
Up ahead, Rachel saw a man and a woman walking a dog. They could be part of this--or they could be a man and a woman walking a dog. Marc was still out of sight. No time for debate now. She ducked low at a stone wall.
Leaning her back against it, Rachel made her way toward the stairs.
Tickner thought that Edgar Portman looked like something out of a Noel Coward production. He wore silk pajamas under a red robe that appeared to have been tied with great care. There were velvet slippers on his feet. His brother, Carson, on the other hand, looked properly ruffled. His pajamas were askew. His hair was all over the place. His eyes were bloodshot.
Neither Portman could take his eyes off the photographs from the CD.
"Edgar," Carson said, "let's not jump to conclusions."
"Not jump ... ?" Edgar turned to Tickner. "I gave him money."
"Yes, sir," Tickner said. "A year and a half ago. We know about that."
"No." Edgar tried to make the word snap with impatience, but he didn't have the strength. "I mean, recently. Today, in fact."
Tickner sat up. "How much?"
"Two million dollars. There was another ransom demand."
"Why didn't you contact us?"
"Oh sure." Edgar made a sound that was half chortle, half sneer. "You all did such a wonderful job last time."
Tickner felt the tick in his blood. "Are you saying that you gave your son-in-law an additional two million dollars?"
"That is precisely what I'm saying."
Carson Portman was still staring at the photographs. Edgar glanced at his brother, then back at Tickner. "Did Marc Seidman kill my daughter?"
Carson stood up. "You know better."
"I'm not asking you, Carson."
Both men looked at Tickner now. Tickner was not having any of it. "You said you met with your son-in-law today?"
If Edgar was upset about his question being ignored, he did not show it. "Early this morning," he said. "At Memorial Park."
"That woman in the pictures." Tickner gestured toward them. "Was she with him?" "No."
"Has either of you ever seen her before?"
Both Carson and Edgar answered in the negative. Edgar picked up one of the photographs. "My daughter hired a private investigator to take these?"
"Yes."
"I don't understand. Who is she?"
Tickner again ignored his question. "The ransom note came to you, like last time?"
"Yes."
"I'm not sure I follow. How did you know that it wasn't a hoax? How did you know that you were dealing with the real kidnappers?"
Carson took that one. "We did think it was a hoax," he said. "At first, I mean."
"So what changed your mind?"
"They sent hairs again." Carson quickly explained about the tests and about Dr. Seidman's request for additional tests.
"You gave him all the hairs, then?"
"We did, yes," Carson said.
Edgar seemed lost in the photographs again. "This woman," he spat. "Was Seidman involved with her?"
"I can't answer that."
"Why else would my daughter want these pictures taken?"
A mobile phone rang. Tickner excused himself and put the receiver to his ear.
"Bingo," O'Malley said.
"What?"
"We got a hit on Seidman's E-ZPass. He crossed the George Washington Bridge five minutes ago."
The robotic voice told me, "Walk down the path."
There was still enough light to see the first few steps. I started down them. The darkness gathered around, closed in. I started to use my foot to feel my way, like a blind man swinging a cane. I didn't like this. I didn't like this at all. I wondered again about Rachel. Was she near here? I tried to follow the path. It curved to the left. I stumbled on the cobblestone.
"Okay," the voice said. "Stop."
I did so. I could see nothing in front of me. Behind me, the street was a faded glow. On my right was a steep incline. The air had that city park smell to it, a swirling potpourri of fresh and stale. I listened for some sort of clue, but there was nothing other than the distant humming swish of traffic.
"Put down the money."
"No," I said. "I want to see my daughter."
"Put down the money."
"We had a deal. You show me my daughter, I show you the money."
There was no reply. I could hear the blood roaring in my ears. The fear was crippling. No, I did not like this. I was too exposed. I checked the path behind me. I could still break into a run and scream like a psycho. This neighborhood was tighter than most in Manhattan. Someone might call the police or try to help.
"Dr. Seidman?"
"Yes?"'
And then a flashlight hit my face. I blinked and raised a hand to block my eyes. I squinted, trying to see past it. Someone lowered the flashlight beam. My eyes quickly adjusted, but there was no need. The beam was cut off by a silhouette. There was no mistake. I could see immediately what was being highlighted.
There was a man. I may have even seen flannel, I'm not sure. As I said, it was in silhouette. I couldn't really make out features or colors or design. So that part could have been my imagination. But not the rest. I saw the shapes and outlines clear enough to know.
Standing next to the man, gripping his leg just above the knee, was a small child.
Chapter 27
Lydia Wished that there was more light. She would very much like to see the look on Dr. Seidman's face right now. Her desire to see his expression had nothing to do with the cruelty that was about to come down. It was curiosity. It was deeper than the slow-to see the-car accident aspect of human nature. Imagine. This man had had his child taken away. For a year and a half, he had been left to wonder about her fate, tossing through sleepless nights, conjuring up horrors best left in the dark abyss of our subconscious.
Now he had seen her.
It would be unnatural not to want to see the expression on his face.
Seconds ticked away. She wanted that. She wanted to stretch the tension, pull him beyond what a man could handle, soften him for the final blow.
Lydia took out her Sig-Sauer. She held it to her side. Peering out from behind the bush she judged the distance between her and Seidman at thirty, maybe forty feet. She put the voice changer and phone back to her mouth. She whispered into it. Whisper or scream, it made no difference. The voice changer made it all sound the same.
"Open the money bag."
From her perch, she watched him move like a man in a trance. He did what she asked--now without question. This time, she was the one using the flashlight. She shone it at his face and then dropped the beam to the bag.
Money. She could see the stacks. She nodded to herself. They were good to go.
"Okay," she said. "Leave the money on the ground. Walk slowly down the path. Tara will be waiting for you."
She watched Dr. Seidman drop the bag. He was squinting at the spot where he believed his daughter would be waiting. His movements were stiff, but then again his vision had probably been affected by the lights in his eyes. That again would make it easier.
Lydia wanted a close shot. Two quick bullets to the head, in case he was wearing a flap jacket. She was a good shot. She could probably hit him in the head from here. But she wanted the sure thing. No mistakes. No chance to run.
Seidman moved toward her. He was twenty feet away. Then fifteen. When he was only ten feet away, Lydia raised the pistol and took aim.
If Marc took the subway, Rachel knew that it'd be near impossible to follow him without being spotted.
Rachel hurried toward the stairwell. When she got there, she looked down into the dark. Marc was gone. Damn. She scanned the surroundings. There was a sign for elevators leading down to the A train. On the right was a closed wrought-iron gate. Nothing else.
He had to be in an elevator heading down to the subway.
Now what?
She heard footsteps behind her. With
her right hand, Rachel quickly wiped the greasepaint, hoping to make herself look at least semi presentable. With her left hand, she slid the goggles behind her and out of sight.
Two men trotted down the stairs. One caught her eye and smiled. She wiped her face again and smiled back. The men jogged the rest of the way down the steps and turned toward the elevator bank.
Rachel quickly considered her options. Those two men could be her cover. She could follow them down, get into the same elevator, get off with them, maybe even engage them in conversation. Who'd suspect her then? Hopefully Marc's subway car hadn't left yet. If it had . . . well, no use in thinking negative.
Rachel started toward the men when something made her stop. The wrought-iron gate. The one she had seen on her right. It was closed. The sign on it read: OPEN ON WEEKENDS AND MAJOR HOLIDAYS ONLY.
But through the thicket, Rachel saw the beam of a flashlight.
She pulled up. She tried to peer through the fence, but all she could see was the light beam. The brush was too thick. On her left, she heard the ding of an elevator. The doors slid open. The men stepped inside. No time to pull out the Palm Pilot and check the GPS. Besides, the elevator and beam of flashlight were too close. It would be hard to pinpoint the difference.
The man who had smiled at her put his hand against the side, keeping the door open. She wondered what to do.
The flashlight beam went out.
"Are you coming?" the man asked.
She waited for the flashlight beam to come back on. It didn't. She shook her head. "No, thank you."
Rachel quickly broke back up the stairs, trying to find a dark spot. It had to be dark for the goggles to work. The Rigels came with a built-in overlight sensor system to protect from bright lights, but Rachel still found that the fewer artificial lights, the better. Street level looked down over the park. Okay, the positioning was pretty good, but there was still too much light from the street.
She moved to the side of the stone hut that housed the elevators. On the left, there was a spot that--if she pressed herself against the wall-- would give her total darkness. Perfect. The trees and bushes were still too heavy to get a clear view. But it would have to do.
Her goggles were supposedly lightweight but they still felt bulky. She should have bought a model you could just hold up to your face, binocular style. Most have that feature. This model didn't. You could not just hold it to up your eyes. You had to strap it on as a mask. The advantage, however, was obvious: If you attached it like a mask, you could keep your hands free.