Harlan Coben (27 page)

A structure.

It looked like a barn of some sort. We were more careful now. We kept low. We darted from tree to tree and tried to stay out of sight. We did not speak. After a bit, I started hearing music. Country, I think, but I'm no expert. Up ahead, I spotted a clearing. There was indeed a barn that appeared to be in mid-demolition. There was another structure too—a ranch or maybe extended trailer.

We moved a little closer, right to the end of the woods. We pressed ourselves against trees and peeked out. There was a tractor in the yard. I saw an old Trans Am up on cement blocks. Directly in front of the ranch was a white, overly sporty car—some might call it a “hot rod,” I guess—with a thick black stripe up the hood. It looked like a Camaro.

The woods had ended, but we were still at least fifty feet from the ranch house. The grass was high, knee level. Rachel took out her gun. I still held mine. She dropped to the ground and began to commando-crawl. I did the same. On television commando-crawling looks pretty easy. You simply crawl with your butt down. And for about ten feet, it is pretty easy. Then it gets a lot harder. My elbows ached. The grass kept getting caught up in my nose and mouth. I do not suffer from hay fever or allergies, but we were kicking up something. Gnats and the like rose vengefully as we disturbed their slumber. The music was louder now. The singer—a man hitting nary a note—complained about his poor, poor heart.

Rachel stopped. I crawled to her right and pulled up even. “You okay?” she whispered.

I nodded, but I was panting.

“We may have to do something once we get there,” she said. “I can't have you exhausted. We can slow down if you need to.”

I shook her off and started moving. I was not going to slow down. Slowing down was simply not on the menu. We were getting closer. I could see the Camaro more clearly now. There were black mud flaps with the silver silhouette of a shapely girl behind the rear tires. There were bumper stickers on the back. One read:
GUNS DON
'
T KILL PEOPLE
,
BUT THEY SURE MAKE IT EASIER
.

Rachel and I were near the end of the grass, almost exposed, when the dog started barking. We both froze.

There are several varieties of dog barks. The yap of an annoying toy dog. The call of a friendly golden retriever. The warning of a basically harmless pet. And then there is that guttural, junkyard, rip-out-the-thorax bark that makes the blood thin.

This bark fit into the last category.

I was not particularly scared of the dog. I had a gun. It'd be easier, I guess, to use it on a dog than a human being. What did frighten me, of course, was that the barking would be heard by the ranch's occupant. So we waited. A minute or two later, the dog stopped. We kept our eyes on the ranch door. I was not sure what we would do if someone came out. Suppose we were spotted. We couldn't shoot. We still didn't know anything. The fact that a call had been made from the residence of Verne Dayton to the cell phone of a dead man did not add up to much. We didn't know if my daughter was here or not.

We knew, in fact, nothing.

There were hubcaps in the yard. The rising sun gleamed off them. I spotted a bunch of green boxes. And something about them held my gaze. Forgetting caution, I started moving closer.

“Wait,” Rachel whispered.

But I couldn't. I needed to get a better look at those boxes. Something about them . . . but I couldn't put my finger on it. I crawled to the tractor and then hid behind it. I peered out toward the boxes again. Now I saw it. The boxes were indeed green. They also had a graphic featuring a smiling baby.

Diapers.

Rachel was next to me now. I swallowed. A big box of diapers. The kind you buy in bulk at a price club. Rachel saw it too. She put her hand on my arm, warning me to stay calm. We got back down on the ground. She signaled that we were going to make our way to a side window. I nodded that I understood. There was a long fiddle solo blaring from the stereo now.

We were both on our stomachs when I felt something cold against the back of my neck. I slid my eyes toward Rachel. There was a rifle barrel there too, pressed against the base of her skull.

A voice said, “Drop your weapons!”

It was a man. Rachel's right hand was bent in front of her face. The
gun was in it. She let it go. A work boot stepped forward and kicked it away. I tried to discern the odds. One man. I could see that now. One man with two rifles. I could conceivably make a move here. No way I'd make it in time, but it might free up Rachel. I met her eyes and saw panic in them. She knew what I was thinking. The rifle suddenly dug deeper into my skull, pushing my face into the dirt.

“Don't try it, Chief. I can splatter two sets of brains as easy as one.”

My mind scurried, but it kept hitting dead ends. So I let the gun drop from my hand and watched this man kick away our hope.

“Stay on your
stomachs!”

“I'm an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Rachel said.

“Shut the hell up.”

With our faces still in the dirt, he had us both put our hands on top of our head, fingers laced. He put a knee in my spine. I grimaced. Using his body for leverage, the man pulled my arms back, nearly popping my shoulders out of their sockets. My wrists were expertly bound together with nylon flex cuffs. They felt like those ridiculously complicated plastic ties they use to package toys so they can't be shoplifted.

“Put your feet together.”

Another cuff fastened my ankles together. He pushed down on my back to get up. Then he moved over to Rachel. I was going to say something stupidly chivalric like
Leave her alone!
but I knew that this would be, at best, futile. I kept still.

“I'm a federal agent,” Rachel said.

“I heard you the first time.”

He put a knee in her back and pulled her hands together. She grunted in pain.

“Hey,” I said.

The man ignored me. I turned and took my first real look at him, and it was like I'd been dropped into a time warp. No doubt about it—the Camaro belonged to him. His hair was eighties-hockey-player long, maybe permed, the color a strange offshoot of orange-blond, tucked back behind his ears and styled into the kind of mullet cut I hadn't seen since a Night Ranger music video. He had a cheesy blond mustache that
could have been a milk stain. His T-shirt read
UNIVERSITY OF SMITH AND WESSON
. His jeans were unnaturally dark blue and looked stiff.

After he bound Rachel's hands, he said, “Get up, missy. You and me are taking a walk.”

Rachel tried to make her voice stern. “You're not listening,” she said, her hair falling down over her eyes. “I'm Rachel Mills—”

“And I'm Verne Dayton. So what?”

“I'm a federal agent.”

“Your ID says retired.” Verne Dayton smiled. He wasn't toothless, but he wasn't exactly an orthodontic poster boy either. His right incisor was totally turned in like a door off its hinge. “Kinda young to be retired, don't you think?”

“I still work special cases. They know I'm here.”

“Really? Don't tell me. There's a bunch of agents waiting down yonder and if they don't hear from you in three minutes, they're all gonna come storming in. That about it, Rachel?”

She stopped. He had read her bluff. She had nowhere else to go.

“Get up,” he said again, this time pulling on her arms.

Rachel stumbled to her feet.

“Where are you taking her?” I asked.

He did not reply. They started walking toward the barn. “Hey!” I called out, my voice booming with impotence. “Hey, come back!” But they kept walking. Rachel struggled, but her hands were tied behind her back. Every time she moved too much, he lifted the hands up, forcing her to bend forward. Eventually she complied and just walked.

Fear lit my nerves. In a frenzy, I looked for something, anything, that would get me free. Our guns? No, he had picked them up already. And even if he hadn't, what would I do? Fire with my teeth? I debated rolling over onto my back, but I wasn't sure how that would help yet. So now what? I started moving inchworm-style toward the tractor. I looked for a blade or anything that I might use to cut myself free.

In the distance, I heard the barn door creak open. My head swerved in time to see them disappear inside. The door closed behind them. The sound echoed into silence. The music—it must have been a CD or tape—had stopped. It was quiet now. And Rachel was gone from sight.

I had to get my hands free.

I started crawling forward, lifting my butt, pushing off with my legs.
I made it to the tractor. I searched for some kind of blade or sharp edge. Nothing. My eyes darted to the barn.

“Rachel!” I shouted.

My voice echoed through the stillness. That was the only reply. My heart started doing flip-flops.

Oh God, now what?

I rolled onto my back and sat up. Pushing with my legs, I pressed against the tractor. I had a clear view of the barn. I don't know what the hell that did for me. There was still no movement, no sound. My eyes darted all over the place, desperately hunting for something that could bring salvation. But there was nothing.

I thought about going for the Camaro. A gun nut like this probably had two, three concealed weapons on him at all times. There might be something in there. But again, even if I managed to get there in time, how would I open the door? How would I search for a gun? How would I fire it when I found one?

No, I had to get this cuff off me first.

I looked on the ground for . . . I don't even know. A sharp rock. A broken beer bottle. Something. I wondered how much time had passed since they disappeared. I wondered what he was doing to Rachel. My throat felt as if it might close up.

“Rachel!”

I heard the desperation in the echo. It scared me. But again there was no reply.

What was going on in there?

I looked again for some kind of edge on the tractor, something I could use to break free. There was rust. Lots of rust. Would that work? If I rubbed the cuff against a rusty corner, would it eventually cut through? I doubted it, but there was nothing else.

I managed to get on my knees. I leaned my wrists against the rusted corner and moved up and down like a bear using a tree to scratch his back. My arms slipped. The rust bit into my skin, and the sting ran up my arm. I looked back over at the barn, listened hard, still heard nothing.

I kept going.

The problem was, I was doing this by feel. I turned my head as far as I could, but I couldn't see my wrists. Was this having any effect at all? I
had no idea. But it was all I had to work with. So I continued moving up and down, trying to break free by pulling my arms apart like Hercules in a B movie.

I don't know how long I kept it up. Probably no more than two or three minutes, though it felt like a lot longer. The cuff did not break or even loosen. What finally made me stop was a sound. The barn door had opened. For a moment, I saw nothing. Then the Hick with the Hair came out. Alone. He started walking toward me.

“Where is she?”

Without speaking, Verne Dayton bent down and checked my cuffs. I could smell him now. He smelled of dried grass and work sweat. He was studying my hands. I glanced back. There was blood on the ground. My blood, no doubt. An idea suddenly came to me.

I reared back and aimed a head butt in his direction. .

I know how devastating a proper head-butt can be. I had performed surgeries on faces crushed by such blows.

This would not be the case here.

My body position was awkward. My hands and feet were both bound. I was on my knees. I was twisting behind me. My skull didn't land on the nose or softer part of his face. It caught him on the forehead. There was a hollow
klunk
like something out of a Three Stooges soundtrack. Verne Dayton rolled back, cursing. I was totally off balance now, in free fall with nothing but my face to cushion my landing. My right cheek took the brunt of it, rattling my teeth. But I was beyond pain. I slid my eyes in his direction. He sat shaking out the cobwebs. There was a small laceration on his forehead.

Now or never.

Still tied up, I flailed toward him. But I was too slow.

Verne Dayton leaned back and raised a work boot. When I was close enough, he stomped my face as if he were beating back a brushfire. I fell back. He backpedaled to a safe distance and grabbed the rifle.

“Don't move!” His fingers checked the gash on his head. He looked at the blood in disbelief. “You out of your mind?”

I was flat on my back, my breaths coming in deep heaves. I didn't think anything was broken, but then again, I wasn't sure it was going to matter. He walked over to me and kicked me hard in the ribs. I rolled over. He grabbed my arms and started dragging me. I tried to get my
feet under me. He was strong as hell. The steps to the trailer didn't slow him down. He pulled me up them, shouldered the door open, and tossed me in like bag of peat moss.

I landed with a thud. Verne Dayton stepped inside and closed the door. My eyes took in the room. It was half what you'd expect, half not. The expected: There were guns mounted on the wall, antique muskets, hunter's rifle. There was the obligatory deer head, a framed NRA membership made out to Verne Dayton, a quilted American flag. The unexpected: The place was spotless and what some might call tastefully furnished. I spotted a playpen in the corner, but it wasn't cluttered. The toys were in one of those fiberglass chests with different color drawers. The drawers were categorized and labeled.

He sat down and looked at me. I was still on my stomach. Verne Dayton toyed with his hair a little, pushing back the strands, tucking the long sides behind his ears. His face was thin. Everything about him screamed yokel.

“You the one beat her up?” he said.

For a moment I didn't know what he was talking about. Then I remembered that he'd seen Rachel's injuries. “No.”

“That get you off, huh? Beating up a woman?”

“What did you do with her?”

He took out a revolver, opened the chamber, slid a bullet into it. He spun it to a close and pointed it at my knee. “Who sent you?”

“No one.”

“You want to get capped?”

I'd had enough. I rolled onto my back, waiting to hear him pull the trigger. But he didn't shoot. He let me move, keeping the gun on me. I sat up and stared him down. That seemed to confuse him. He took a step back.

“Where's my daughter?” I said.

“Huh?” He tilted his head. “You trying to be funny?”

I looked into his eyes and I saw it. This was no act. He had no idea what I was talking about.

“You come here with guns,” he said, his face reddening. “You want to kill me? My wife? My kids?” Verne raised the gun to my face. “Give me one good reason I don't blow you both away and bury you in the woods?”

Kids. He said kids. Something about this whole setup suddenly wasn't making sense. I decided to take a chance. “Listen to me,” I said. “My name is Marc Seidman. Eighteen months ago, my wife was murdered and my daughter abducted.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Please, just let me explain.”

“Wait a second.” Verne's eyes narrowed. He rubbed his chin. “I remember you. From the television. You were shot too, right?”

“Yes.”

“So why do you want to steal my guns?”

I closed my eyes. “I'm not here to steal your guns,” I said. “I'm here”—I wasn't sure how to say this—“I'm here to find my daughter.”

It took this a second to register. Then his mouth dropped open. “You think I had something to do with that?”

“I don't know.”

“You better start explaining.”

So I did. I told him all of it. The story sounded insane in my ears, but Verne listened. He gave me his full attention. Toward the end, I said, “The man who did this. Or was somehow involved. I don't know anymore. We got his cell phone. He only had one incoming call. It came from here.”

Verne thought about it. “This man. What's his name?”

“We don't know.”

“I call a lot of people, Marc.”

“We know the call was made sometime last night.”

Verne shook his head. “Nope, no way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn't home last night. I was on the road, making a delivery. I only got home about half an hour before you got here. Spotted you when Munch—that's my dog—started the low growl. The bark, that don't mean much. It's the low growl tells me someone's there.”

“Wait a second. No one was here last night?”

He shrugged. “Well, my wife and boys. But the boys are six and three. I don't think they were calling anyone. And I know Kat. She wouldn't be making any calls that late either.”

“Kat?” I said.

“My wife. Kat. It's short for Katarina. She's from Serbia.”

 

“Get you a beer, Marc?”

I surprised myself by saying, “That would be nice, Verne.”

Verne Dayton had cut off the plastic cuffs. I rubbed my wrists. Rachel was next to me. He hadn't harmed her. He'd just wanted us separated, in part, he said, because he thought that I'd beaten her up and forced her to help me. Verne had a valuable gun collection—many of them still in working condition—and people were a little too interested in them. He'd figured that was the case with us.

“A Bud, okay?”

“Sure.”

“You, Rachel?”

“No thanks.”

“Soft drink? Some ice water maybe?”

“Water would be great, thanks.”

Verne smiled, which wasn't the most pleasant sight. “No problem.” I rubbed my wrists again. He spotted it and grinned. “We used those in the Gulf War. Kept them Iraqis under control, I can tell you.”

He disappeared into the kitchen. I looked at Rachel. She shrugged. Verne came back with two Buds and a glass of water. He passed out the drinks. He raised the bottle for us to clink. I did. He sat down.

“I got two kids of my own. Boys. Verne Junior and Perry. If something ever happened to them . . .” Verne whistled low and shook his head. “I don't know how you even get out of bed in the morning.”

“I think about finding her,” I said.

Verne nodded hard at that. “I can relate, I guess. Long as a man ain't fooling himself, you know what I mean?” He looked over at Rachel. “You absolutely sure the phone number is mine?”

Rachel took out the cell phone. She pressed some digits and then showed him the small screen. Using his mouth, Verne extracted a Winston from the pack. He shook his head. “I don't understand it.”

“We're hoping your wife can help.”

He nodded slowly. “She wrote a note, says she went food shopping. Kat likes to do that early in the morning. At the twenty-four-hour A and P.” He stopped. I think Verne was torn here. He wanted to be able to help, but he didn't want to hear that his wife had called a strange man at midnight. He raised his head. “Rachel, how about I get you some fresh bandages?”