The Chain(30)

Rachel goes upstairs to get the whiteboard from Kylie’s room. She opens the door, half expecting Kylie to be hiding in there, for this to be some cruel, crazy prank.

It’s empty, but the room smells of her little girl. That cheap Forever 21 perfume she loves. The seashell collection, the clothes overflowing the laundry bin, the books on astronomy and Egypt. A box that holds every birthday card she’s ever gotten. The posters of Brockhampton and the Keira Knightley version of Pride and Prejudice. Her neatly arranged homework binders. Her photo montage of friends and family.

Rachel feels herself begin to sway. She grabs the whiteboard and steps into the hall and gently closes the door.

Downstairs they plot little Toby’s life on a flow chart. He has archery tonight and Sunday night. Archery finishes at seven and he walks home. That’s the window of opportunity. “The archery club meets at something called the Old Customs Hall near the water in Beverly. It’s a little less than a one-klick walk from there to the Dunleavys’ house,” Pete says, looking at Google Maps.

“What’s a klick?”

“Sorry—one kilometer. I’ve been over the route on Google street view a few times now. He walks from the Old Customs Hall up Revenue Street, then he turns left on Standore Street, right on Poseidon Street, and he’s at his house. It should take him no more than seven or eight minutes. Maybe ten at the most.”

It’s a pretty tight schedule and they know it.

“We have to hit him between seven o’clock and seven ten. In fact, if this is going to work, we have to get him when he’s on Standore Street, since there will be too many people milling about on Revenue Street and we can’t grab him right in front of his house on Poseidon because his mom might be waiting for him,” Rachel says.

Pete rubs his chin. It’s a very narrow window indeed, both temporally and geographically, but he doesn’t bring that up. This is the kid they have done the planning for. Rachel stifles a yawn. “Why don’t you take a nap and I’ll drive down there again and check the entire route this time,” Pete suggests.

“No nap necessary. Let’s go.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

They go outside, get in the Volvo, and reach Beverly in a mere fifteen minutes. The town is maybe a little too close to Rachel’s town for comfort, but that can’t be helped.

It’s busier now. There are, Rachel thinks, a worrying number of assholes walking their dogs or out for a stroll. Assholes, because why should they be so unconcerned and happy when the sky is falling? Has fallen. The Old Customs Hall is near the water, and this too is a popular dog-walking and hangout locale.

“Updated weather forecast,” Pete says, looking at his laptop. “Drizzle tonight, not rain. Hopefully that’ll be enough moisture to deter casual foot traffic but not so much that his mom comes to pick him up.”

“When I get Kylie back, I’m not letting her walk anywhere by herself until she’s fifty,” Rachel mutters, knowing this is a pitiful horse/barn-door statement.

They drive from the Old Customs Hall along Revenue Street and Standore Street and up Poseidon Street, about a three-minute run through unremarkable suburban New England. Standore Street is lined with big old-growth oak trees that still have leaves. “Excellent cover,” Pete notes.

They turn and head back to the center of town.

“All right, this is the plan,” Rachel announces. “One, we drive to the Old Customs Hall. Two, we wait for the kids to come out. Three, we follow Toby home along Revenue and Standore Streets. Please, God, let Toby be by himself. Four, we pull up the car next to him. Five, we grab him and throw him inside. Six, we drive off.”

“Do you want me to grab him?”

She nods. “And I’ll drive.”

“OK, then.”

She looks at him. “There are so many things that can go wrong, Pete. I’m glad you’re with me.”

Pete thinks back to that night at Camp Bastion in September of 2012 when everything went wrong. He bites his lip. “Yeah, it’ll be fine, Rach,” he says.

“But even if it all goes right,” she replies wretchedly, “it’ll still be absolutely terrible.”





24

Friday, 11:39 a.m.



Kylie wakes up in a sleeping bag. Where—

With a gasp of horror she remembers where she is and what has happened. She’s in a basement somewhere north of Newburyport where two people, a husband and wife, are keeping her until her mother pays a ransom. Kylie’s throat constricts. She sits up in the sleeping bag and hyperventilates. The air down here is musty and thick.

She pulls it into her lungs nevertheless and forces herself to calm the hell down. They’re going to kill me, they’re going to kill me, they…no. They’re not. They’re not psychopaths. They aren’t going to harm me if Mom does what they want. What happened with the state trooper was an accident.

And she’s not dead yet.

She’s been working on a plan. The wrench…yes!

Judging from the sun, she probably slept late. Amazing that she slept at all. She needs to pee real bad now. She turns her back to the camera, grabs the pee bucket, and uses the scrunched-up sleeping bag as a shield.

A few minutes later the door opens, and she can see the man at the top of the stairs. Beyond him are a yard and a tree. He leaves the door open as he comes downstairs holding a tray. He’s wearing pajamas and he has his ski mask on. She can hear him breathing heavily, as if coming down the stairs has been a bit of an effort.