BoneMan's Daughters (22 page)

To make matters worse, he’d made it perfectly clear that he had special knowledge of the case, knowledge only BoneMan should
have.

But none of these particulars were as disturbing to Ryan as the one that flogged his mind as he tried to harness its calculating
prowess, fleeing down Barton Creek Boulevard, sixty seconds after leaving Celine and company against the wall: Bethany was
with BoneMan.

Think, Ryan
. He took another deep, cleansing breath.
Think
.

Okay. He had to ditch the car. They would be all over Bee Cave Road and Southwest Parkway, the two primary roads that fed
the vicinity, and Southwest Parkway was a wide-open thoroughfare with little traffic—not the best road to blend in on.

He whipped the Camry around and tore back the other way, past the house, relieved to see that they weren’t climbing into their
cars to chase him down. No, they were too smart for that. More likely on the phone, getting choppers in the air, locking down
the surrounding streets.

Ryan turned right on Lost Creek Boulevard and took the twisting road through two valleys before jerking the car into Lost
Creek Country Club’s private drive.

He rolled into the parking lot, stopped between a black Mercedes and a BMW M6, and turned off the ignition.

The motor clicked softly.

Now what?

Now two things: One, he had to avoid being taken into custody at all costs. Two, he had to find BoneMan. To do either he had
to remain perfectly calm and reasoned.

The second objective was one that had eluded the law—there was no reason to think that he could succeed where they had failed.
Except that BoneMan had engaged Ryan directly, maybe even wanted him to find his daughter. If the law got too close before
Ryan found them, they would be gone. Which meant he couldn’t help the FBI find BoneMan.

He had to find BoneMan on his own.

Ryan looked at his hands, trembling on the steering wheel. See, now his mind had retreated into reason, but his body wasn’t
keeping up, not since his breakdown in the desert.

He placed both hands on his lap.

BoneMan’s words echoed through his mind. “Where the crows fly.” What the oblique reference could possibly mean was beyond
him, but then so was every cipher at first glance.

Or was it a simple riddle? For that matter, it could be a straightforward clue. Either way he’d broken it down a dozen times
on the drive down to Austin, and he did it again now, knowing that meticulous repetition was the key to breaking all codes.

He lingered on the whole message. A chopper beat the air far above him, but he ignored it. There was no way they could see
through the massive birch under which he’d parked.

From a dozen feet, BoneMan’s message was plain. I’ve taken your daughter and I want you to see if you can find her. If you
can’t do so in seven days, I’m going to kill her.

Her name is Bethany
. Bethany, from the Hebrew Beth, meaning
My God is a vow
or
the vow of God
. Bethany is a living reminder of God’s perfection in creation.

It took you seven days to make her.
It took God seven days to create this vow called life.

Now I’m giving you as much time to save her.
But now God’s perfect vow is in trouble and she is in my control because I, not God, have her. I will give you seven days
to save her.

Follow me where the crows fly, alone, Father.

Follow me
… I want you to come, not the FBI or the police.

Where the crows fly
… Where black birds called crows congregate. Where people who remind me of crows congregate.

Or was it more metaphorical? Where crows fly, meaning in the mind, or up high, in the open…

In the open. In the air. Where everyone can see you. Follow me where I can see you. I will find you.

Ryan let the thoughts circulate, like crows, taking whatever path they liked, however jerky or abstract. A full twenty minutes
passed, and he decided that it was enough.

He walked up to the clubhouse and stepped around to the side, where two vans sat next to a large protected garbage receptacle.
He’d intended on taking one of the vans either by hotwiring it or by acquiring the keys inside, but he now saw that the closest
used a magnetic logo.

He peeled the large Lost Creek Country Club placard off and slipped behind the vehicle. Working with his utility knife, he
quickly unscrewed the license plate and returned to the Camry.

It took Ryan only a few more minutes to make the switch with his own car and pull out of the parking lot. He now drove a club
car with a club license plate, not enough to escape scrutiny for long, but it would slow them.

Half an hour had passed since his altercation with Celine and company. None of this would get him any closer to finding Bethany,
but for the sake of his own sanity he’d set aside the objective for the moment. He had to get past whatever net they were
spreading before he took BoneMan up on his challenge.

In the open. On the air. As the crow flies.

He couldn’t be sure it was what BoneMan wanted, but until or unless a better idea presented itself to him, he would run with
the assumption.

Ryan drove the Camry to Lost Creek Clubhouse and parked it on one of the upper lots, where it would likely remain inconspicuous
for some time. The main resort rose from the golf course a hundred yards farther down and, taking the answering machine with
him, he walked to the hotel without concern of being spotted as anyone other than just one more golfer who’d come to take
on the world-class course.

The authorities were much farther out by now—they would never suspect that he was still within a mile or two of Celine’s house.

But BoneMan wasn’t here, in this mile or two, he was sure of that.

It took him a half hour to find the right car, a black Ford Taurus that looked as if it had been parked for at least a few
days. He was forced to break the side window to gain access, but fortunately this was Texas—he hardly needed a window to keep
out the cold.

Ten minutes later he rolled out of Lost Creek and turned south on Bee Cave Road. He took 360 north to Westlake Plaza, where
he once again took his place in a parking lot, just another black car in a sea of similar cars.

Satisfied that he was safe for some hours, Ryan sunk low in his seat, eyed the radio tower at the lot’s south end, and focused
his mind on the problem at hand.

RYAN HAD FIRST seen the towers two months earlier on his way out of town—an intelligence officer obsessed with communication
tended to notice things like antennae. KRQZ FM 106.5 had particularly sexy towers. Not that it mattered. Once he made his
statement, every audio source in southern Texas would be rebroadcasting it.

The hours ticked by slowly as he waited for the day to pass. Once he stepped out they would have a fix on him—he had to wait
for darkness to cover his escape.

So he sat low and he listened to the radio and he waited.

It was strange to hear his name over the car’s sound system, particularly as the man now identified as being armed, dangerous,
and under suspicion of being BoneMan.

He ran through the dial, surprised at the extent of the coverage. Ryan Evans was described as an embittered combat veteran
potentially suffering from mental disorders. An estranged father of the victim and a hostile ex-husband who’d broken into
the administration building two months earlier and physically assaulted the district attorney.

They were offering $50,000 for information that led to his arrest.

Hearing the reports, Ryan wasn’t sure that he
wasn’t
some kind of crazed lunatic who had gone off the deep end. They seemed to know him better than he knew himself. It was all
enough to lure him back into a state of complete despair.

But he couldn’t allow despair to cloud his judgment, not now. He was in the middle of breaking the code of his life, a challenge
of wits with stakes that made those in the desert seem like child’s play in his way of thinking.

By midafternoon the authorities had publicly launched the largest manhunt in recent Austin history. By all reports the face
of Ryan Evans was plastered all over the Internet and on all of the newscasts. Hotlines were already flooded with tips.

And yet here he sat, in the corner of a parking lot, lost and alone.

They were now looking for a silver Camry with Lost Creek Country Club logos on the sides, they said. By morning it might be
a black Taurus, but by then, if all went well, he would be across the state.

Dusk fell at seven that evening, and as the sky began to grow gray, Ryan began to sweat. Contrary to the endless speculation
on the airwaves, he wasn’t as bloodthirsty or ruthless as they’d painted him. Thoughts of committing the smallest crime turned
him weak.

But there was one facet of their characterization that rang true and was perhaps even understated. Ryan was desperate. He
was a desperate father who would do whatever it took to find and save his daughter. The fact that he’d managed to temper that
desperation through great effort did not keep him from sweating as the time approached.

Satisfied that there was enough darkness to aid his flight, Ryan shoved the gun behind his belt, exited the Taurus, and walked
up to the glass door that read KRQZ FM 106.5, THE SEXY SIDE OF COUNTRY.

He paused with his hand on the door, took a deep breath, and walked in.

The long, curved reception desk was empty after hours, his first break, and God knew he needed as many breaks as he could
get. He walked straight to the hallway door and pushed his way past it.

A wide, darkened hall lined by several large picture windows that peered into studios ran into the building. No one had seen
him so far, no one around that he could see.

And then that changed with the emergence of a man and woman, who pushed open one of the doors and turned up the hall toward
him.

“No, but what I am saying is that
American Idol
is finished if they don’t completely change up their presentation,” the woman dressed in khaki slacks and a pink top said.
“Call it burnout. I know I’m a victim.”

Her friend lifted his eyes and stared at Ryan. “Not disagreeing. But you gotta admit Seacrest is the real star in…”

And then his eyes went wide, and Ryan knew he’d been recognized. He lifted his hand and strode forward.

“Excuse me. Excuse me, you guys know where the manager is?”

“It’s him!” The young man had red hair piled in curls atop his head, a thin guy who was more frame then flesh, and his round
blue eyes bugged like balls from his boney head.

They both stopped and stared.

Ryan withdrew the gun but he held it low, in a nonthreatening manner, so as not to frighten them.

“I just need to use—”

The pink-shirted woman screamed, and Ryan knew it was all over. He lifted the gun and shoved it at both of them. “Fine, if
you insist. But please, keep your mouths shut.” He glanced through one of the picture windows as he passed. A darkened, unused
studio.

Back on the pair. “How many people are working here tonight?”

“You’re him,” the man said, swallowing with the help of a pronounced Adam’s apple.

“How many?”

“Just three of us.”

“Where’s the other one?”

“In the studio.”

“Okay, that’s good.” He stopped two yards from them and held the gun awkwardly. “If you’ve been watching the news, you know
that I’m unstable, right?”

She nodded.

“So you don’t want to do anything stupid, like scream or try to warn your friend. I’m not going to hurt you; I only want to
use your equipment.”

They thought he was the BoneMan, he realized. BoneMan was standing in their hall, waving a gun at them. They were too shocked
to respond.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Brent,” the redhead squeaked.

“Anyone else due in tonight?”

“No.”

“So… we should be alone for a while.”

“Please,” the girl whispered.

He waved the gun. “Take me to Brent.”

They both turned as if walking on pins and retraced their steps down the hall toward the door they’d just passed through.

Their friend was a younger man with long black hair who wore headphones and was bopping his head to music when they stepped
inside the studio.

Ryan locked the door and pulled the blinds that covered the window.

“Whoa!” The dark-haired hippie turned and spotted his gun. “What the—”

“Shut up, Brent.” He waved the gun at a bank of chairs along the wall. “Sit, all of you.”

But they just stared at him.

“Sit!” he yelled. “You think I’m just playing around here? Now sit your asses in those chairs and… just sit!”

They hurried to the chairs like frantic geese and sat. Brent’s headphones where still in place, and the cord was stretched
across the room.

Ryan walked up to him, plucked the headgear from his head, and tossed it on the floor.

“Now, I’m going to make this really simple. I need your help. If you help me, I won’t break your fingers and toes and maybe
your… ankles.” Dear God, he wasn’t sounding like the BoneMan, certainly not the likes of Kahlid. He steeled his jaw.

“I need to send out a message and then I need to get away before the authorities swarm this place. You need to help me, okay?”

They stared at him with round eyes.

Ryan snapped his fingers. “Do I start breaking fingers, or are you going to snap out of it?”

“We’ll do anything,” the girl pleaded. “Please, please don’t hurt us.”

“I won’t. Just don’t… mess things up. I can transmit live from here, right?”

“Yes,” the redhead said.

“How many frequencies can you broadcast on?” He glanced at the hippie kid.

“Legally?”

“No. How many?”

“Seven.”

“Then I want to send a message out on all seven frequencies.”

“You can’t do them all at once. We don’t have the equipment for that.”

“How many can you do at once?”

“One.”