was the sound of tape being ripped from a roll. Despite her desperate attempts, Amanda Law very shortly found her wrists bound with duct tape, then her ankles. Then a strip of the tape was placed over her mouth, and finally a pillowcase pulled over her head and held there with a wrap of tape around her neck.
Amanda Law, her head still covered by the pillowcase, knew that she was in some sort of house not too far from the hospital. She had tried to track the direction and distance the van had driven her since she’d been abducted, but had become pretty disoriented after the first four or five turns. On two of the turns, the driver had taken them so fast that she’d rolled around on the open back floor, and that had really thrown off her sense of direction.
The distance had been easier to track only because it had not taken long at all to reach the house. It had been maybe eight, ten minutes at most before the driver had stood heavily on the brakes, then bumped up over a curb.
Someone-it must have been the skinny dark-skinned one in the T-shirt-had gotten out the front passenger door, and there had been the sound of a chain being pulled from around a metal pole, then of a metal gate dragging across what sounded like rock. The van had eased forward, its tires crunching on the gravel. And the gate was closed and locked.
One of the men had then picked her out of the back of the van, thrown her over his right shoulder, and carried her into the house. There, in what smelled like the kitchen, she had been put into what felt like an old wooden armchair. There came a tugging at her duct-taped wrists, and she realized after a moment, when the pressure of the wrap began easing, that her hands were being released.
But only for a moment. As she flexed her fingers and wrists to get the feeling back in them, someone grabbed her left wrist, and there came the sound of more duct tape being torn from a roll. Her left wrist was then taped to the left armrest of the wooden chair, and it was repeated on the right. Then her ankles were taped to the bottom of the chair’s front legs.
She could hear the sound of someone walking across the room, the door of a refrigerator opening, the clanking of what sounded like beer bottles being removed. Then the door closed and bottles were opened with a pffft sound.
And then the clanking of glass bottles again.
They just toasted the success of my kidnapping! Amanda Law thought.
What the hell is going on?
What do they want with me?
Is this… is this it? “So, Dr. Amanda Law,” a male Hispanic voice said.
He knows me?
How the hell does he know who I am?
That’s the same voice as the driver, who shouted about getting the phone…
There was the sound of a newspaper being opened.
The voice then said, “ ‘ The cowards who carried out these killings are despicable’-”
Despite the tape covering her mouth, she suddenly gasped.
He’s reading that from the front page of the paper!
The voice went on: “ ‘ Shooting a helpless patient as he lay unconscious in his hospital bed is a vile act… I would personally like to stare these evil people in the eye and see that they suffer real justice.’ ”
There was a long silence. It ended with the sound of a glass bottle being put heavily on a table.
“That bastard Skipper wasn’t helpless, Dr. Law. Same with that Jamaican bastard in the market. No, no. And I would think someone as smart as you would know things are never as simple as they appear.” He took a sip of his beer. “So maybe now you do. Too bad it’s too late.”
These are the killers…?
Dear God…
Then she heard another male Hispanic voice: “It’s busted a little, but still works.”
“Give it to me,” the first male said.
Amanda could hear the click-click-click sounds the computer-phone made when the touch-screen buttons were tapped.
“Well, look what we have here. Dr. Amanda Law has a new boyfriend sending her texts. Looks like his name is Matt.”
Oh, no! What happens now?
Especially if they find out Matt’s a cop…
“Wonder if the boyfriend will pay to get Dr. Amanda Law back. And how much more to get her back safely?”
The other man grunted.
“Well, only one way to find out,” the first said.
Amanda heard a different clicking sound, like the pushing of a button.
That’s not my phone.
Then she heard the terrifying sound of the screams of a young girl and the shouts of a young boy.
That’s a recording!
Of somebody being-what?-tortured!
Then there was another click. The recording stopped.
“Here we go,” the first man’s voice said.
She heard the familiar clicking sound of her phone.
Then quiet.
Then one more click.
“I’ll be damned! It went into voice mail,” He added bitterly, “What’s the matter, Dr. Law? Doesn’t your boyfriend take your calls? Maybe this bastard Matt won’t pay to get you back! How is that for your justice?”
Amanda felt a sob welling up. She fought it back.
“Well, what the hell. We’ll just leave the boyfriend a message.”
There came the clicks, then she could hear the male breathing heavily.
He’s getting some sick satisfaction out of this!
It sounds almost sexual!
Oh, God help me!
Then she heard, after enough time had passed for Matt’s phone to answer and roll the call into voice mail, the man shout: “We have your girlfriend, Matt!”
Then came the audio recording of the teenage boy’s terrified shouts of “Stop! No!” and the girl begging, “No! Don’t!”
That went on for maybe five seconds.
Then the man shouted: “Do as I say, and you get your Dr. Law back alive! No cops!”
Then there was the sound of more clicks.
And then the kitchen was terribly quiet.
Except for the soft sobbing of Amanda Law.
[FOUR] York and Hancock Streets, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 11:01 P.M.
Matt Payne, Tony Harris, and Jim Byrth were seated in the passenger seats of Paco Esteban’s white Plymouth Voyager minivan. It was parked on the corner, a block shy of the dilapidated row house at 2505 Hancock Street.
Esteban was in the driver’s seat. And that almost had not happened.
At Esteban’s house, a fairly charged discussion ensued as to what to do with the information-not to mention the head-that Esteban had provided.
Chad Nesbitt, seeing where the debate may have been leading, excused himself. He’d said he’d done more than enough putting Paco Esteban together with Matt Payne. And he left, presumably to go home for a bath, clean clothes, and a good mouthwash.
In the basement, Harris had automatically said that he’d call in the information to the Roundhouse. That would get the official wheels turning. And someone farther up the food chain, certainly one in a white shirt, if not a white shirt with one or more stars pinned to its collar points, would decide how many assets to throw at 2505 Hancock Avenue.
