The Collector stared at the video monitor, his face drawn in a frown. He had a pretty good idea why the police had suddenly shown up and knew that they wouldn’t be getting past that gate any time soon. He strained his eyes and recognized the bigger cop from somewhere. He had been working security at one of those trifling dedications he had attended. Jacobs—that was his name. Officer Jacobs was now joining his partner and pulling at the gate mercilessly, as if their combined efforts could actually force the old thing open somehow. But Father had been very careful to hire the best contractor money could buy to ensure the security of his beloved home on the mountain. And it would take a lot more than the strength of a pair of Wayneston cops to gain access to the Fowler estate.
It took but a moment of pushing and pulling before Jacobs and his partner gave up. Now Jacobs was getting back into the police car while the other man stood by. Jacobs was pulling forward slowly while his partner gestured the distance between the car and the gate with his hands. Once the cruiser’s bumper was pressed firmly against the gate, Jacob paused a moment before giving it the gas. All this action succeeded in doing was to cause the wheels to spin out uselessly on the gravel and the car’s rear end to sway sideways. After a minute or so more of this vain attempt, Jacobs backed off the gas and threw the gearshift into park. The Collector could imagine the frustration on his face.
Jacobs got out of the cruiser and chatted again with his partner, apparently to discuss Plan C. The Collector had seen enough. As formidable as the gate may be, it was not invincible. He didn’t have much time.
Had he thought for even a moment that Alan Swansea would actually find out where Harold had stashed the other girls before they had been picked up, he would never have kept Polina. The chief of police had seemed totally satisfied after his investigation that nothing was amiss. In fact, as the two officers finally left his property, the Collector could almost hear the chief really letting Swansea have it for making such horrendous accusations of Wayneston’s most prominent figure. That should have been the end of it.
But somehow, some way, the tenacious investigator had evidently managed to screw everything up. Whatever had happened, he would have to wait to find out. He knew better than to try calling Harold now. The last time he’d spoken to him was after he’d apprehended Swansea and locked him up in his basement. He’d told him that the Russian and Yuri’s hired assassin were only a few miles away from the farm and would be arriving any minute. Everything was under control, he’d promised.
But something had gone wrong and now the police were coming to get him. Had he not become selfish and opted to keep the girl, there would have been a chance, however slim, that he might somehow beat any serious charges they could file against him. After all, he had never really harmed any of the girls and the only crime he was guilty of was harboring trafficked goods, for lack of a better term. He could have hired the best lawyer money could buy and maybe received nothing more than a slap on the wrist since he had no criminal record. He could have put all of the blame on Harold, poor fellow, who (he would say) had insisted that he obtain the girls illegally instead of helping him obtain some of the locals. After all, it was Harold who had carried out all of the negotiations to get the girls in the first place and it was on Harold’s farm that they found them, not here. Harold was the culprit in all of this and all that he had done was pursue his art and try his best to keep the overbearing Harold Branson happy.
Coulda, shoulda, woulda—
But now none of this would float. All because he had kept Polina. The other girls no doubt had informed the cops that he still had her and now he was about to be caught red-handed with the girl. That would be enough for them to put him away for a very long time—
So what could he do to get out of this situation? Take the girl hostage and threaten to kill her if they didn’t back off? And what good would that do? It would only delay the inevitable.
The more he thought about it, the more frustrated the Collector became. All his life he had been handed practically anything he ever wanted. He’d had a great life for the most part, one of great privilege and prestige. He was a Fowler, by God! Not some ignorant hillbilly redneck like everybody else around here.
He deserved better. He simply couldn’t go to prison. He would not go to prison! He was going to have to come up with something—