NOS4A2(103)

In a kidnapping nothing is more important than what happens in the first thirty minutes, Vic thought, her mind replaying something she had once heard on TV.

Vic did not think what she did in the next thirty minutes mattered at all, did not think any cop anywhere had the power to find Charlie Manx and the Wraith. Still, she shoved herself to her feet, because she needed to do what she could, whether it made a difference or not.

She walked like a drunk in a hard crosswind, swaying, following a wandering path to the back door, which is where she fell again. She went up the steps on hands and knees, used the railing to get to her feet. The phone began to ring. Vic forced herself onward, through another burst of lancing pain, sharp enough to drive the breath out of her.

She reeled through the kitchen, reached the phone, caught it on the third ring, just before it could go to voice mail.

“I need help,” Vic said. “Who is this? You have to help me. Someone took my son.”

“Aw, it’s okay, Ms. McQueen,” said the little girl on the other end of the line. “Daddy will drive safe and make sure Wayne has a real good time. He’ll be here with us soon. He’ll be here in Christmasland, and we’ll show him all our games. Isn’t that fine?”

Vic hit END CALL, then dialed 911.

A woman told her she had reached emergency services. Her voice was calm and detached. “What’s your name and the nature of your emergency?”

“Victoria McQueen. I’ve been attacked. A man has kidnapped my son. I can describe the car. They only just drove away. Please send someone.”

The dispatcher tried to keep the same tone of steady calm but couldn’t quite manage it. Adrenaline changed everything.

“How badly are you hurt?”

“Forget that. Let’s talk about the kidnapper. His name is Charles Talent Manx. He’s . . . I don’t know, old.” Dead, Vic thought but didn’t say. “In his seventies. He’s over six feet tall, balding, about two hundred pounds. There’s another man with him, someone younger. I didn’t see him too well.” Because he was wearing a f*cking gasmask for some reason. But she didn’t say that either. “They’re in a Rolls-Royce Wraith, a classic, 1930s. My son is in the backseat. My son is twelve. His name is Bruce, but he doesn’t like that name.” And Vic began to cry, couldn’t help it. “He has black hair and is five feet tall and was wearing a white T-shirt with nothing on it.”

“Victoria, the police are en route. Was either of these men armed?”

“Yes. The younger one has a gun. And Manx has some kind of hammer. He hit me with it a couple times.”

“I’m dispatching an ambulance to see to your injuries. Did you happen to get the license plate?”

“It’s a f*cking Rolls-Royce from the thirties with my little boy in the back. How many of those do you think are driving around?” Her voice snagged on a sob. She coughed it up and coughed up the license-plate tag as well: “En-o-ess-four-a-two. It’s a vanity plate. Spells a German word. Nosferatu.”

“What’s it mean?”

“What’s it matter? Look it the f*ck up.”

“I’m sorry. I understand you’re upset. We’re sending out an alert now. We’re going to do everything we can to get your son back. I know you’re scared. Be calm. Please try to be calm.” Vic had a sense that the dispatcher was half talking to herself. There was a wavering tone in her voice, like the woman was struggling not to cry. “Help is on the way. Victoria—”

“Just Vic. Thank you. I’m sorry I swore at you.”

“It’s all right. Don’t worry about it. Vic, if they’re in a distinctive car like a Rolls-Royce, that’s good. That will stand out. They aren’t going to get far in a vehicle like that. If they’re anywhere on the road, someone will see them.”

But no one did.


WHEN THE EMTS TRIED TO ESCORT HER TO THE AMBULANCE, VIC ELBOWED free from them, told them to keep their f*cking hands off.

A police officer, a small, portly Indian woman, inserted herself between Vic and the men.

“You can examine her here,” she said, leading Vic back to the couch. Her voice carried the lightest of accents, a lilt that made every statement sound both vaguely musical and like a question. “It is better if she doesn’t go. What if the kidnapper calls?”

Vic huddled on the couch in her wet cutoffs, wrapped in a throw. An EMT wearing blue gloves planted himself next to her and asked her to drop the blanket and remove her shirt. That got the attention of the cops in the room, who cast surreptitious glances Vic’s way, but Vic complied wordlessly, without a second thought. She slopped her wet shirt on the floor. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and she covered her breasts with one arm, hunching forward to let the EMT look at her back.

The EMT inhaled sharply.

The Indian police officer—her name tag read CHITRA—stood on Vic’s other side, looking down the curve of Vic’s back. She made a sound herself, a soft cry of sympathy.

“I thought you said he tried to run you over,” Chitra said. “You did not say he succeeded.”

“She’s going to have to sign a form,” said the EMT. “A thing that says she refused to get in the ambulance. I need to cover my ass here. She could have cracked ribs or a popped spleen and I could miss it. I want it on record that I don’t believe treating her here is in her best medical interest.”