Page 39 of The Chain
It’s busier now. There are, Rachel thinks, a worrying number of assholes walking their dogs or out for a stroll. Assholes, because why should they be so unconcerned and happy when the sky is falling?Hasfallen. The Old Customs Hall is near the water, and this too is a popular dog-walking and hangout locale.
“Updated weather forecast,” Pete says, looking at his laptop. “Drizzle tonight, not rain. Hopefully that’ll be enough moisture to deter casual foot traffic but not so much that his mom comes to pick him up.”
“When I get Kylie back, I’m not letting her walk anywhere by herself until she’s fifty,” Rachel mutters, knowing this is a pitiful horse/barn-door statement.
They drive from the Old Customs Hall along Revenue Street and Standore Street and up Poseidon Street, about a three-minute run through unremarkable suburban New England. Standore Street is lined with big old-growth oak trees that still have leaves. “Excellent cover,” Pete notes.
They turn and head back to the center of town.
“All right, this is the plan,” Rachel announces. “One, we drive to the Old Customs Hall. Two, we wait for the kids to come out. Three, we follow Toby home along Revenue and Standore Streets. Please, God, let Toby be by himself. Four, we pull upthe car next to him. Five, we grab him and throw him inside. Six, we drive off.”
“Do you want me to grab him?”
She nods. “And I’ll drive.”
“OK, then.”
She looks at him. “There are so many things that can go wrong, Pete. I’m glad you’re with me.”
Pete thinks back to that night at Camp Bastion in September of 2012 when everything went wrong. He bites his lip. “Yeah, it’ll be fine, Rach,” he says.
“But even if it all goes right,” she replies wretchedly, “it’ll still be absolutely terrible.”
24
Friday, 11:39 a.m.
Kylie wakes up in a sleeping bag. Where—
With a gasp of horror she remembers where she is and what has happened. She’s in a basement somewhere north of Newburyport where two people, a husband and wife, are keeping her until her mother pays a ransom. Kylie’s throat constricts. She sits up in the sleeping bag and hyperventilates. The air down here is musty and thick.
She pulls it into her lungs nevertheless and forces herself to calm the hell down.They’re going to kill me, they’re going to kill me, they…no. They’re not. They’re not psychopaths. They aren’t going to harm me if Mom does what they want. What happened with the state trooper was an accident.
And she’s not dead yet.
She’s been working on a plan. The wrench…yes!
Judging from the sun, she probably slept late. Amazing that she slept at all. She needs to pee real bad now. She turns her back to the camera, grabs the pee bucket, and uses the scrunched-up sleeping bag as a shield.
A few minutes later the door opens, and she can see the man at the top of the stairs. Beyond him are a yard and a tree. He leaves the door open as he comes downstairs holding a tray. He’s wearing pajamas and he has his ski mask on. She can hear him breathing heavily, as if coming down the stairs has been a bit of an effort.
“Good morning,” he says. “If it is still morning. It is, I think. I brought you, a, um, late breakfast. Cheerios. You like Cheerios, yeah?”
“Sure.”
He walks across the basement floor and sets the tray down next to her. A bowl of Cheerios and milk, a glass of orange juice, another bottle of water. The gun handle is poking out of his pajama pants pocket.
“Apologies about the hour. We didn’t get to bed until very late last night. We weren’t, um, expecting things yesterday to go so…you must be hungry. Did you get any sleep?” he asks.
She shakes her head noncommittally.
“It’s not surprising,” he replies. “This is a crazy set of circumstances. Never in my wildest dreams…”
“Whyareyou doing it?” Kylie asks.
He takes a deep breath. “Because they’ve got our boy,” he says softly and shakes his head. “Did you get a chance to look at the books?”
Kylie sees a little opening here. “Yes. I’d never readMoby Dickbefore. I always thought it would be boring.”
