Blown Away (24 page)

“Don't look at me,” FBI said. “Easier to squeeze blood from a turnip than get a straight answer from Central Intelligence.”

 

Emily tried to ignore the throbbing from the tight ankle cuffs. “Killed your family? I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Don't play stupid,” Marwood growled. “You know exactly what you did. Pretending you don't is an insult to Father. Keep up your filthy lies and I'll gut you.”

Rattled at his venom, she moved on to the “tenth birthday” he'd mentioned. “What's that about, Ellis? Why would I remember something from that long ago?”

“Some things you don't forget,” Marwood said.

“I thought you wanted me to know everything,” she tried.

He glowered, then began.

“You decided to throw a party,” he said, words clipped, expression menacing. “To play those board games you loved so damn much. The ones you played every Saturday night with your parents. You invited your classmates to your house. To play. To have fun. You invited everyone. Except me.” He whipped the Three Little Pigs mug against the basement door, the crash startling her so much, she wrenched her back staying upright.

“That day is still so clear,” he continued, folding his arms. “You made party invitations from typing paper. Colored them real pretty with Crayolas. Pasted on candles and birthday cakes you scissored from construction paper. Put the finished product in little white envelopes—”

“Like mine at the library,” Emily said, the significance of that “birthday card” now thundering.

Marwood's entire body was a spring under tension. “You brought the invitations to school. Chatted with each kid individually to make sure they could attend. I sat in the back corner, where the penguins always stuck me before I became Mr. Touchdown. Waiting. Hoping. Excited. Everyone else was invited, why not me? I could be your friend. Why not?” He hissed like an angry goose. “But you stopped when you got to my desk. You looked at me a long time, then turned around. I was the only one in the room not invited! And everybody knew it!”

“I'm sorry,” Emily said, wishing she could recall the incident. But it was three-quarters of her life ago! “I just don't remember…”

Then she did.

“But, Mama,” she'd argued, “he'd be the only one left out. That's not right, is it?” Mama stroked her long hair but wouldn't yield. “I'm sorry it seems unfair, honey, but your father and I don't want you associating with Brady Kepp. He's a troubled boy from a troubled family.” She stuffed Brady's invitation in her apron, went to the fridge to begin supper. “You're sweet wanting to include everyone, but someday you'll understand why we're doing this.”

“Oh,” Emily said in a little voice, astonished at her twinge of sympathy for this monster. “I couldn't invite you. My folks wouldn't let me. I-I'm sorry.”

“You're sorry, all right,” Marwood snarled, twisting her words again. “Oh, you were tough enough in front of your friends, giving me those black eyes when I asked you to the Valentine's Day dance. But you wouldn't stand up to your parents!” He trembled from the acid of childhood humiliation. “I heard all about it Monday. The games were a blast, the cake yummy! Everyone got a present! Emily's so cool, she's our new best friend and…and…”

“It was thirty years ago, Brady—”

“It was yesterday!” he growled. “And don't call me Brady, you stinking cunt. Brady's dead. My name is Ellis Marwood.”

 

Branch's pupils danced as Dr. Winslow's powerful stimulant took hold. Sweat leaked from his matted hair, and he looked on the verge of passing out….

Blink-blink.

Blink.

Blink-blink-blink-blink.

“He's semaphoring,” Winslow whispered, stunned. “That's not possible!”

“Two, one, four,” Cross interpreted. “
B-A-D
. Bad. You know the bad guy's name.”

Blink.

“We know it already, Branch. It's Kepp. Brady Kepp.”

Blink-blink.

“No?” Cross said, shocked. Winslow blotted Branch's face, murmured encouragement. “Then who?” he tried again. “Give me his name. First letter, come on—damn!”

Branch was in full spasm.

 

“Easy does it,” Annie muttered, the eye tape finally sticking to the wall. “Easy…” She pulled it off centimeter by centimeter, batting her eyelids to restore her vision. She knew where she was. Emily's basement. She and Lydia Branch had helped install the forty-gallon water heater in the corner a couple months ago. “Yo! Chicks rule!” Emily had shouted when her blowtorched copper connections didn't leak. She couldn't see what was hog-tying her hands and feet behind her back, but it felt like rope. Good. She looked around for cutting tools. None. Then spotted a long curl of sheet metal jutting from the base of the heater. She recalled Emily promising to snip it flush the next day so nobody got sliced.
God bless procrastinators!
She inch-wormed to the heater on kneecaps and forehead, rubbing them raw. She turned backwards and pushed against the makeshift blade. Something stabbed her tailbone. She wiggled her hips till a little red hotel popped out.
Monopoly.
She shook her head, resumed rubbing rope against metal.

 

“Patrol Six, report,” Jodi crackled.

“All quiet,” Marwood replied, glare-warning Emily. “Any update from Safety Town?”

“Nothing new. Coroner's still matching up body parts.”

Marwood coughed. “We had some good friends in there. I hope this maniac resists arrest.”

“Emily's got dibs,” Jodi said. “Hey, you want me to send over a paramedic? Your throat sounds worse.”

“No, no,” Marwood replied. “They have better things to do. Soon as this is over, I'll swing by the hospital, get checked out.”

“Understood,” Jodi said. “By the way, that thunderstorm keeps gathering strength. Weather Channel says it'll hit Naperville in an hour.”

“Peachy. I love standing guard in a typhoon.”

“I hear ya,” Jodi said. “Dispatch out.”

 

“And it was important Brady understood the people he would kill, Emmy,” Marwood continued, circling the table, voice becoming childlike. “So he learned all about the human mind, why people do the things they do.” His eyes gleamed. “Brady was a Green Beret and led secret missions. He killed a ton of people, Emmy.”

Emmy. You called me that the first time we met because you couldn't pronounce Emily.

“Important people, all around the world. America's enemies became Brady's enemies, and he dispatched them ruthlessly.” Pace-pace-pace. “Brady was wonderful at searching and destroying. His bosses were very pleased. Then he got a visit from a man he didn't know. ‘We have a job for someone with your special talents, Brady,' the man said. ‘But it's extremely dangerous. We'll destroy your identity when you're finished and provide a brand-new one. One you'll create from scratch, that only you will know. Only a handful of people on this planet could do this job, Brady, and you're one of them. We'd like to offer you this very special chance to serve your country.' Brady loved killing, Emmy. So he transferred to the CIA and did the job they wanted. Two more after that. Powerful people, heads of state. The CIA gave Brady that new life. Brady Kepp went to heaven.”

“And Ellis Marwood was born,” Emily said.

“Right,” he spat, snapping back to the present. “You might be interested to know, I named myself after the two most prolific public executioners in British history—Arthur Ellis and William Marwood.”

“British? Why?”

“To honor your British heritage, of course. Something Jack would have appreciated. Lucky for me, you never shared his fascination with history, or you might have outed me sooner.” He cackled, seamlessly shifting between man and boy. “The only thing Brady carried to his new life was Emily's belittling. The birthday party. The black eyes. Making him beg on his knees. And even that wasn't enough, so you made him an orphan. An orphan!” His eyes bugged out. “That's why Brady chose a military life, Emmy, so he could learn the best way to take his revenge on the Thompson family. For their heartless murder of Brady's entire family.”

Emily floundered for understanding.
Is this a vanished memory? Is Marwood hallucinating? Is it actually true? Does it matter?

“Scared?” Marwood sneered.

“Cold,” she lied. “I left my fur at the station.” She pursed her lips in disgust. “Did you do me when I was unconscious? Or just play with yourself?”

Marwood reared back. “I didn't touch you!” he barked. “I have no interest in you that way. None. You're unworthy of a man like me.” His expression turned malicious. “You're naked so I can watch your body respond to Hangman. It's the last of the nine games you didn't let me play thirty years ago. Operation was the first, my dress rehearsal played in Massachusetts. Monopoly was the second, played with Lucy Crawford. Clue was the third, played with Arnie Soull—”

“And fourth is Chutes and Ladders, played with the fireman,” she interrupted. “Save your wind, I don't want to relive ancient history.”

Marwood poured coffee into a new cup and detailed, anyway. Exactly as she anticipated.

 

The blood-soaked rope finally parted. Annie eased her sliced-up feet and hands from behind her back, wiggled her toes and fingers to restore circulation.

 

“They're overdue, Commander,” the safe-house SWAT warned Benedetti through the fearsome static. “Can't raise them on radio, cell phone, or laptop.”

“Us either,” Benedetti said. “Storm's screwing up communications. We'll have to do this the hard way. You and one backup stay at the lodge. Send the rest north along Annie's route.”

“That's gonna take awhile,” the SWAT warned. “Secondary roads are washing out already, and the storm's trained back to Kansas City.”

“I know,” Benedetti said. “But I have no choice. Boys are gonna get a little wet.”

“Hell, they can't wait. They're still young enough to think this shit's fun.” He waited out the earsplitting crackle. “Maybe they got a flat tire and can't reach us through the interference.”

“I sure hope so,” Benedetti said.

“Roger that, Commander. Heading out now.”

“Good luck.” He raised the State Police and FBI helicopters surfing the roiling sky—“We'll search till the storm forces us to land,” both pilots assured—then ordered the station SWATs to drive south.

 

Emily was exhausted by the time Marwood reached I Spy. “When did you hide those cameras?” she asked.

“Right after your wedding,” he replied. “Lucky Jack. You sure were randy back then.”

 

Annie climbed the carpeted stairs, pinning her shoulder against the wall to avoid stepping in the middle, which would be more likely to squeak. The pipe wrench and hammer she found weren't the greatest weapons, but Marwood had taken everything else.

 

Cross stood in Branch's line of vision, ready to interpret. “Welcome back, Captain,” Winslow said, flooding his IV with stimulant. “Ready to spell us that name?”

Blink.

 

Annie eased her ear to the six-panel door. She heard Emily and Marwood clearly, meaning they were just on the other side, in the kitchen. She wouldn't have to run more than twenty-five feet, which she could cover in two seconds. Praying Marwood hadn't wedged a chair under the knob, she began turning the solid brass cylinder.

 

Emily bit her lip in frustration. With her hands cuffed behind her back, that bra knife might as well be on Mars. Marwood was out of kicking range, the bayonet kept her from yelling, the neighborhood evacuation meant nobody would hear her, and the submachine gun and rifle by the back door ruled out everything else. Even if she miraculously escaped the noose, she couldn't run, thanks to the cuffed ankles.

“Wait a minute, Ellis,” she said. “Trooper O'Brien said the walls were breathing. Why?”

“Oh, that. I built a MASH unit inside an army-surplus wall tent,” Marwood said, relishing his cleverness. “It was windy the day of the kidnapping, and the canvas walls flapped. That's why he told Bertha the walls were breathing.”

“Bertha?”

“The Boston 911 dispatcher who fielded my call. As for the organs I removed, they were Broken Heart, Bread Basket, Adam's Apple, Spare Ribs, Butterflies in Stomach—”

“Sadist!” Emily snapped.

“Nah, there's no ‘sadist' in Operation,” Marwood said. “I piled his organs in order of removal, for easy identification. But those imbecile cops couldn't find the tent. I wound up calling Boston back with directions.”

“They weren't imbeciles. You were simply smarter,” Emily said, switching to ego massage to keep the conversation going. An escape plan was tugging at her subconscious, and she needed time for it to jell. “What was the first game you played, Ellis? I mean, the one that started all this? Was it Operation?”

Marwood pantomimed a steering wheel. “Bumper cars. Get it?”

 

“I'm worried about the guys at Emily's house,” Jodi said.

“Why?” Benedetti asked, alarmed. “Security breach?”

“No, everything's quiet,” she said. “But one of them is raspy from smoke inhalation, meaning the other is, too. He claims they're fine, and they probably are. But I'd feel better if we—”

“Send the next available paramedic unit,” Benedetti said. Branch said Jodi was the sharpest knife in the dispatching drawer. If she thought the house sitters needed TLC, they did.

 

“Bumper cars! You're a filthy piece of vomit!” Emily fumed.

“Hey, you asked,” Marwood said. “I had leave coming from the army and decided to visit the old neighborhood. I hitchhiked to Chicago and stole a pickup truck. I swung by your house on your birthday, hoping you'd be visiting for the occasion. No such luck, but your folks were walking back from the store with ice cream. I seized the moment.”