Measure of Darkness (25 page)

“He would be compromised.”

“Yes.”

“Because he would want to protect you and the baby.”

“Yes.”

“And is that what happened?”

“More or less. The strategy was to keep him off balance. While I was pregnant I stayed here in Boston and saw him every few days. He went with me to the birthing center the day Joey was born, although he could not make himself witness the delivery. After a few days he held the baby, briefly, but I could tell he really didn't like it.”

“He didn't like Joey?” Naomi says, surprised.

“No, no. He loved Joey in his way, of this I am sure. It was the holding part he didn't enjoy. He kept saying, ‘I'm afraid I'll break him.' He was frightened. I was frightened, too, but not about holding Joey. I loved that part right from the start. It was being a mother that scared me. I had no idea what to do, not at first.”

“It's our understanding that soon after giving birth you returned to Hong Kong.”

“Yes, true. When Joey was about a month old I went home.”

“This was your idea?”

“I made no objection—I wanted to go home, to resume my old life—but no, it was not my idea. They arranged it. I was to tell him I wanted to show the baby to my relatives and then I would simply keep making excuses and never get around to coming back to the U.S.A. Their intention was that Joe would want to visit me and the baby in Hong Kong and they would make contact with him there.”

“This is what I find puzzling,” Naomi says. “According to what you've told us, Jonny Bing was cooperating with this woman spy who acted as your translator. He
was also partners with Professor Keener, so why couldn't Keener simply be induced to pass information through Mr. Bing?”

Ming-Mei says, “They felt it was important that Joe not suspect Jonny, or he would also suspect that the whole relationship with me was arranged for that purpose. Which it was, of course. Also Jonny told me he was always under surveillance, they were keeping an eye on him because he was Chinese-American.”

“A Chinese-American deeply invested in a company developing a secret computer system for the Pentagon.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“And you remained in Hong Kong for about a year?”

“Thirteen months.”

“Why did you return?”

“Because he never came to visit! They couldn't get over it. The colonel made sure I kept sending video clips of Joey, to induce him into visiting, but eventually it became clear that for him the video clips were enough. He loved seeing the pictures but it didn't make him want to visit us in person. So then the decision is made, and I am to return to U.S.A. We are to live in a very nice condo Joe has purchased in Arlington. At first I refuse, and that's when the colonel makes it clear exactly what my situation was.”

“They threatened to take the baby.”

Now it's Ming-Mei's turn to look shocked. “How did you know?”

“Because that's the logical choice. The baby gives them leverage over you, even if it hasn't yet worked with the professor.”

“I had no choice. But it turns out to be maybe the best thing I did. Because Joey does get to know his father a
little bit, for a little while. And that's when he discovered music.”

“Music?” I ask, piping up from the peanut gallery.

“Did you not know? Like his father my son is a genius. Not a science or math genius, a musical genius. In other ways Joey is normal, he is a regular little boy who likes to have his mi ma hold him and fuss over him and tickle his tummy and read him stories. But what his father did, he played some classical music on a CD, and Joey got so excited—he was two years old at the time, a toddler—that his father went out and bought a little piano keyboard, with special child-size keys. It was like watching magic happen. His father shows him how to hit two keys, an octave apart, and Joey right away starts using six fingers, three on each hand, to make simple chords. He liked it so much it made him laugh. By the time he's three he's making up his own music. He's spending so much time at his keyboard, playing for hours, that I'm worried, but his teacher tells me not to worry, this is the way it is with true musical prodigies, you can't keep them away from the music, it's opening up whole new worlds and they want to explore.”

“Professor Keener's birth parents were both musicians,” Naomi points out. “You're a singer, and therefore musically inclined. I'm not really surprised that music is in the boy's DNA.”

“That's what Joe said,” Ming-Mei says, nodding eagerly. “He said, ‘on my side it skipped a generation.' It helped both of them, I think. Joe still didn't want to pick up Joey, but the music was a connection. He was fascinated by Joey's progress, and very pleased, very proud.”

“Okay, let me see if we understand the chronology,” Naomi says. “On your second visit you and Joey stay at
the Arlington condo for about a year and a half, is that correct?”

Ming-Mei nods firmly. “Yes.”

“And then, abruptly, you return again to Hong Kong. Why was that?”

“The excuse, my grandmother has taken ill. In reality, both my grandmothers died long ago. The colonel was by then very eager to get Joe's cooperation. They thought he had bonded so much with his son that he would surely visit us in Hong Kong, where they could spring their trap and make him share secrets. I was not to send him videos or emails, if he wanted to see Joey he would have to come to us. And six months later, he did.”

“What happened, exactly?” Naomi says, a little too casually. Those familiar with her technique pick up the signals—she's about to bore in, shaking out something crucial to the case.

“Everything went wrong,” Ming-Mei says with a sigh. “That was the beginning of the end. At first it was very nice—he was so glad to see Joey, so amazed by his musical progress—by then Joey was starting to read music, and practicing some of the simpler Mozart sonatas. He came every day to watch and listen, and seemed to me to be as happy as I had ever seen him. Then one day he comes and I can see right away that he's very upset. Some Chinese men came to his hotel and threatened him in some way, or said something that made him suspicious. He has decided that I am part of this conspiracy and I don't admit it, but of course he's right. Suddenly he's looking at me like he looks at everybody else in the world, like I'm not quite there.”

“He knew?”

“He knew something was wrong. He became very angry and left us and went back to the U.S.A.”

“So they tried to recruit him but he refused to cooperate.”

Ming-Mei nods. “The colonel was very angry, too, and at first she tried to blame me. But they had bugged my apartment and they went over the audiotapes, which proved that I never said anything to make him suspicious. So they came up with another plan. And this was the most cruel thing of all. This is my curse, which has come back to haunt me.”

“You pretended that Joey was kidnapped,” says Naomi, glancing around to make sure we're all paying strict attention.

“Yes. Yes, I did.” Ming-Mei weeps freely, her lovely cheekbones glistening with tears. “That's what I pretended. And then it really happened.”

“Please explain,” Naomi says, as if for our benefit. “The timing and sequence of this is, I believe, crucial to any possible recovery of your son.”

Ming-Mei sniffs, but doesn't attempt to blot away the tears. “It was the colonel's idea, but I obeyed. I knew what I did was evil. I let Joe believe that little Joey had been taken from the mall. That the authorities believe he had been stolen to be sold as a replacement child.”

“But Joey wasn't stolen
then.
”

“No. He was fine. I told him he had to stay with his piano teacher for a few days, for special lessons, and he was very enthusiastic. Of course, his father came to Hong Kong, very upset, and he did everything possible to find Joey.”

“He hired private investigators to search for the boy.”

“Yes, but that was all part of the plan. They used their own people. They led him to the mainland and told him if he didn't cooperate, Joey would never be seen again. He called me from Beijing, so upset I can hardly under
stand what he is saying. Of course the call is being monitored, but he doesn't care. He says he has failed, because he has no secret to share. He would give them anything they want, but he has nothing to give. Then the call is cut off and that's the last I ever heard from him.”

“He had no secrets to share.”

“That's what he said, and I believed him.”

“That was a year ago. When was Joey really kidnapped?”

Ming-Mei takes a deep breath, apparently determined to keep it together, no matter how difficult the subject matter. “Three weeks ago. As usual I took him for his piano lessons, but when I go to pick him up, he's already gone. I find his teacher tied to a chair in her practice room. Three men came to take him away, moments before I arrived.”

“Could she identify them?”

Ming-Mei shakes her head. “Only that they were
sai yan,
Western. And that they were very quick and efficient, like soldiers.”

The confession concluded, Naomi sits back and surveys us, satisfied that we've all been sufficiently impressed by the revelations. “Gatling's men,” she concludes. “I'd stake my life on it.”

 

Midnight on the roof deck. Apparently I'm not the only one who can't sleep, because there's a red glow bobbing when I get there. Jack Delancey, having himself a fine cigar. Then I hear murmuring and realize he's not alone. Teddy, in his dark clothing, fully blended into the night.

“Sorry,” I say. “Didn't realize this roof was occupied.”

“Don't be silly,” Jack says. He makes a welcoming
gesture. “Join us, please. I was trying to explain to young Ted about the Benefactor.”

“Oh?” I sink into a chair, glad of the breeze, which is wafting the smoke elsewhere.

“He was surprised, shall we say, that our mystery guest could be so easily summoned.”

“I doubt it was easy,” I say.

“My point exactly. Just because the boss didn't leave the residence doesn't mean she wasn't working the case, and working it hard. I've also been suggesting that, tempting as it might be to peek behind the curtain, it would be a mistake to try and identify the Benefactor.”

“I believe we all signed contracts to that effect.”

Teddy pipes up, “No, no, I wasn't looking, not like that. Just speculating.”

“Maybe an ambassador, he was thinking,” says Jack, taking no position. “Or someone from the Justice Department.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe an eccentric billionaire using us as his giant game of ‘Clue.'”

Teddy makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a giggle. “That would be cool. Are there secret passages in the residence?”

Jack clears his throat.

I say, “As a matter of fact, there are.”

I like it that he doesn't ask where. In the dark I can almost feel his young mind racing. It'll give him something to do, other than obsess on the identity of the person who makes this all possible, and who obviously has the power to move a game piece halfway around the globe.

“Busy day tomorrow,” Jack says, standing up. “The boss has plans.”

“If you don't mind, I'll stay for a few minutes,” I say when the two men get up to leave.

“Suit yourself.”

“Good night, Miss Crane. I mean Alice.”

“Away with you both.”

The lights of the city usually have a calming effect, as if some grand purpose is being illuminated from within, but tonight the calm part isn't working. I keep thinking about helicopters hovering silently, painting targets on a screen, and men in black masks, and an assassin's bullet crashing into the residence, and a few minutes later I hurry down to bed, if not to sleep.

K
athy Mancero has a weapon and a plan. She would have preferred a baseball bat, but none being available she had finally, after many frustrating, nail-breaking hours, managed to pry a length of two-by-four from the inside of a closet. It will have to do. As to her escape plan, it all depends on Joey.

“You want to get away from the bad man?” she'd asked him.

“Yes, please,” he'd answered without hesitation.

“I want you to play your music without the headphones on, so we can all hear it, can you do that?”

“Mozart,” the little boy had said. “I want to play Mozart. Sonata no. 1 in C Major.”

“Good. Lovely. When I say, you unplug the headphones and turn up the volume.”

Night has fallen. The time has come round at last. Kidder is up there, she can hear the dull thump of him moving around on the first floor of the guest cottage. She imagines him getting a beer from the fridge as he settles down to watch the ball game, and the thought of baseball makes her long for an actual bat, one she can wrap her hands around. A Louisville Slugger would be ideal,
but the length of two-by-four will simply have to do. She knows from studying Randall Shane's exploits that things are never perfect, that in order to save a child's life it is sometimes necessary to use what is close to hand.

Clear thinking and a willingness to act, that's what matters most.

Kathy adjusts the overhead lighting, bringing the corners and edges of the room into shadow. She positions a standing lamp to one side of Joey's keyboard, so that his sheet music will be illuminated, as well as the boy himself. Like a spotlight on the stage, it will draw attention to the eye and provide the necessary moment of opportunity. Or so she hopes, most desperately. It will just have to work, she has no other options.

Kathy positions herself to the left of the door, just beyond the inside radius, and leans the two-by-four against the wall. Not wanting to distract Joey from his task. She doesn't want him looking at her when the door opens, that's essential.

“Just read your music and play. Look at the keyboard, not at me.”

Sturdy little hands poised above the keys, he says, without looking at her, “We're going to run away and find my real mommy?”

“Yes, sweetie, that's the plan. Go ahead.”

At first she thinks something is wrong, that the boy has somehow contrived to turn on a recording. Up until now he's always played with the headphones on, for himself alone, and therefore she hadn't been exposed to his skill level. She'd been expecting something childlike, precocious and cute, perhaps, but childlike. There's nothing childish about what emerges from the keyboard speakers. The sonata, composed by Mozart in the nineteenth year of his life, begins simply, a slow,
almost waterlike trickle of notes. Light, graceful, haunting. There's something of a melancholy waltz about the melody, which yearns to turn and pirouette up through the scale. And yet there's none of that oom-pa-pa beat of the waltz. Instead it slowly builds in complexity, touching and rising like a butterfly sampling ascending blossoms.

She's so mesmerized by the sound emerging from those small hands, by the contrast of his fierce concentration with the clear, contemplative beauty of the music itself, that she almost fails to react when Kidder opens the door.

“I'll be damned,” he says, chuckling, all agog at the boy. “It really is you.”

Joey never hesitates. He keeps playing as Kathy steps out from behind the open door, swinging for the fences. At the very last moment Kidder turns toward her, having sensed something, but the hunk of wood connects with back of his skull and he falls to the floor with a guttural sigh.

“Joey! Now!”

The little boy abandons his keyboard without a backward glance and runs to her, taking her outstretched hand.

 

Run, run, run.

No thinking, only running. Up the basement stairs, through the house and out into the night, the little boy keeping up with her, his short legs pumping, not a sound out of him. A glance shows Joey's eyes as big as silver dollars. He may be only five years old but it's obvious he knows the stakes, knows his life depends on getting away from the bad man, the monster man.

Keys.

The thought of keys hits her like a stab wound in the guts, stops her in her tracks, bending her over. Keys, damn it! That was part of her plan. Knock Kidder out, search his pockets for car keys, gate keys, whatever keys might be useful. And yet as soon as he'd gone down, his eyes rolling back, the instinct to flee had been overwhelming. What if he woke up and grabbed her by the neck? He'd kill her with his bare hands and Joey would be next.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should have kept beating him with the two-by-four, but she'd been so terrified that she'd dropped the weapon after the one hit. Dropped it like it was burning her hands. Shane would have made sure. He'd have tied the bad guy up while he had the chance. She'd thought of that when escape was still in the planning stages, couldn't find any rope, but Shane would have made do somehow, he'd have ripped up sheets or found some clever way to neutralize the enemy. Killed him only if absolutely necessary because Randall Shane had rules about things like that.

“Run, Mommy!” Joey screams. “Don't stop!”

The boy urging her to keep moving before the monster in the basement wakes up.

They run together, into the darkness, moist grass under their feet. He called me Mommy, she thinks, and it pleases her. Not that she has any illusions about a happy ending that would let her keep the boy. No, he has to be returned to his real mother, that's what will make this right, what will make her time on earth worth living. That's what Stacy wants her to do, looking down from heaven. That's the only thing that makes sense, as to why she's been left behind. To do this, exactly this.

The big house, a shingled mansion, rises against the dark sky, a great hulking shadow of high peaked roofs
and gables. Beyond that, as she recalls from a single glimpse on the day she arrived, is a sandy dune of beach grass, a rocky shoreline, the sea. Somewhere to the right of the big house is a long curving driveway that joins the main road. They have to get there, to the main road, and without a car—keys! keys!—they'll have to do it on foot.

What she can't recall is how far it is to the next house. Are there normal houses in the area, or are they all unoccupied mansions? What she wants, of course, is a door to bang on, some kind stranger who will take them in, call the police.

The guest cottage where they've been held hostage is something like a hundred yards from the main house, no more than that, surely, but at night, under a cloudy sky, it seems much farther, more perilous. The ground uneven under their feet, tripping them up. Bushes and hedges looming, making it difficult to judge distance. Rather than stumble, Kathy slows them both to a hurried walk as they approach what must be the edge of the property. They've crossed some sort of transition. Her feet detect gravel. Then, suddenly obvious, an eight-foot chain-link fence. Not metal-colored but something darker, green perhaps, to make it blend into the landscaping, which it certainly has done.

A fence never figured into her plans. She hadn't noticed a fence when they first came to the property. How could she have missed it? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Shane would be tearing the chain link from the posts, utilizing his great strength and the leverage of his long arms. All she and Joey can do, find some way around it, or over it. Could the boy climb the links? Is he strong enough to pull himself up and over the fence? Can she push him somehow and then get over the top herself?

Kathy reaches out with her left hand, intending to
grasp the chain and give it an experimental tug. A hot blue spark, big as a glowing softball, arcs from the fence to her hand. The voltage knocks her to the ground, into the big nothing of the deepening darkness.

Joey starts to cry.