The Chain(55)

“Where’s your husband?” Pete asks. “One-word answer. The name of a room. Whisper it. If you’re loud, you’re dead.”

“Basement,” Helen croaks.

“I tried to phone you. Do you recognize my voice?” Rachel asks.

“You’ve got Amelia,” Helen says and begins to cry.

“Where’s the kid? Henry Hogg?” Rachel asks.

“Basement.”

“With your husband?”

“We take turns to—”

Rachel glances at Pete. “Bring the husband up here. I’ll stay with this one.”

She switches on the bedroom light and points the .38 at Helen while Pete goes downstairs.

“What happened to your phone?” Rachel asks, seething. “Why isn’t it on? Why aren’t you sleeping with it under your pillow like a normal person would in this situation?”

“I, I, I don’t know. Isn’t it over there on the dresser?” Helen asks. Her face looks haggard, frightened. Her eyes are red and hollow. At least that’s something.

Rachel looks at the dresser. The phone’s dead. “You forgot to charge it,” she says.

“I—I didn’t know.”

“Sleeping while your daughter’s a hostage? What is your goddamned problem?”

“I, I was just taking a—” she begins when the bedroom door opens.

Mike Dunleavy walks in with his hands up. He doesn’t resemble his photos online or on Facebook. He looks much older, grayer, fatter, stupider. Isn’t he supposed to be some kind of smart guy with money? He looks like every dumb dad picking his kids up late from school because he forgot it was his day to get them. No wonder these clowns screwed it up. How did they ever kidnap anybody? Maybe they even lied about that.

“Is the kid in the basement?” Rachel asks Pete.

“Oh yes,” Pete says and he lets out a kind of half whistle as if to say it isn’t a pretty sight down there.

“You’re the ones that took Amelia?” Mike asks with just a trace of an English accent.

“We have her.”

“Is she OK?” Helen asks desperately.

“She’s fine. We’re looking after her.”

“Why are you here?” Mike says. “We’ve done everything you’ve asked.”

“No. You screwed up. We tried to call you, but your phone was dead and your computer was turned off,” Rachel says.

Helen is looking at her strangely now. If she says something like “I think I know who you are,” then, Jesus Christ, I’m going to have to shoot her on the spot, Rachel thinks.

“This is about the Hoggs, isn’t it?” Helen says. “They’ve done something.”

“It’s what they’re about to do,” Pete says.

“Oh God! What are they about to do?” Helen asks.

“Seamus has an uncle in the U.S. Marshals Service. And he’s going to go see him tomorrow in Stamford,” Rachel informs her.

“Wh—what does that mean?” Helen asks, appalled.

“In theory, it means you have to kill little Henry and start again or else we have to kill Amelia and start again. Simple as that. I’m not having The Chain come near me or my family. Is that understood?” Rachel snarls.

“There must be some other—” Mike begins.

“There is. The three of us drive down to Providence and explain things to Mr. Hogg in person,” Rachel says.

“The three of us?” Pete inquires.

“The three of us,” Rachel insists. “Can’t trust these clowns.”

She turns to Helen. “You’ll stay and watch the kid. Your husband will come with us. We’ll take your car. It’s a BMW, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Mike says.

“Should be fast enough. Put some goddamn shoes on. Oh, and go find Mr. Boo. We need Mr. Boo,” Rachel says.

“Mr. Boo?” Mike wonders.

“Amelia’s bear. She wants it.”

Helen gets Mr. Boo.

“If you call the cops or warn the Hoggs or do anything stupid while we’re out, Amelia’s dead. They’ll kill her and then they’ll come for you and Toby. Do you understand?” Rachel says.

Helen nods.

They go outside to Mike’s BMW, a large, black top-of-the-line job. The kind they give to big earners at Standard. Plush. Comfortable. Fast.

Mike hands Rachel the keys. She gets in the driver’s seat.

Pete gets in the back with Mike.

She turns the key in the ignition and the car growls to life.

She looks in the rearview. Pete’s still a bit dazed. Mike’s shitting himself. She can handle both of them. She will handle both of them.

“Buckle up,” she says.





40

Sunday, 11:59 p.m.



She merges with the traffic.

The highway hums. The highway sings. The highway luminesces.

It is an adder moving south.

Diesel and gasoline.

Water and light.

Sodium filament and neon.

Interstate 95 at midnight. America’s spinal cord, splicing lifelines and destinies and unrelated narratives.

The highway drifts. The highway dreams. The highway examines itself.