between the two deliveries, drove five miles an hour over the 35 mph speed limit, knowing FedEx’s tough policy for its drivers, drove from a point marked on Boldt’s map as 11:37 A.M. following a southerly arrow and a line finally joining a box indicating 12:12 P.M. Flemming drove the entire route, although Boldt was guessing the delivery van had driven a minimum of five miles before the noon hour, and therefore restricted their area of intensive search to a four-mile stretch roughly three-quarters of the way along the route, believing that, in order to have been captured on video, the delivery truck had passed the Crowley safe house somewhere along that same four-mile stretch.
Given the direction of the delivery route, and the direction of the FedEx truck in the video, the safe house had to be on their left. Boldt impatiently studied the homes they passed, annoyed and frustrated that the farmhouses were few and far between. Along the four-mile stretch that Boldt had highlighted, they passed only six homes, not one of which was close enough to the road to explain the FedEx truck’s presence in the video; nor did any of the six houses sit up on a slight rise, also apparent in the ransom.
“It’s a strikeout,” Boldt said, checking his watch.
Flemming drove the same route back toward Mount Vernon, his eyes divided between the road, the houses and Crowley in the backseat. The tension in the car built as Boldt sensed Flemming’s desire to beat the truth out of Crowley. He double-checked the route of the second delivery truck, measuring and approximating the timing. “It’s about a three-mile stretch,” he said.
“We drive the whole route.”
The rain let up and the swiftly moving clouds raced east as if a curtain had been drawn. Moonlight streamed down onto the surrounding tulip fields bleeding lush colors into the black of night. Every available strip of asphalt, gravel patch and turnout was occupied to overflowing with RVs and Westfalias. The annual tulip festival under way, Mount Vernon swelled with thousands upon thousands of tourists. With only a few hundred beds available between Bed and Breakfasts and motels, most of the visitors slept in, and lived out of, their vehicles. During daylight hours, travel by car bordered on impossible. Given the location, the bumper-to-bumper traffic often moved less than five miles an hour. The fields of color spread out like quilt patches a quarter mile square. Even in moonlight, the sight was breathtaking: yellow, reds, deep violet.
Noticing all the traffic pulled off for the night along the road’s shoulders, Flemming said to the woman in his rearview mirror, “Planned it this way, didn’t you? Mount Vernon. The festival. The crowds and all. Who would notice a couple of renters this time of year?”
With her lips taped shut, the hostage said nothing. Caught in the faint glow of ambient light, her eyes seemed heavy and sad. Fatigue caught up to her and dragged her down. Depression set in. Boldt realized it was all but over for her. He wondered silently if the safe house was better off left undiscovered. He was debating intentionally misleading Flemming, when the man tugged the map off Boldt’s lap and struggled with the wheel and the map light. A moment later he said, “Okay, a left up here. Then another left at the tracks. Then across the bridge and we’re basically at the first delivery: 11:51. Twelve minutes later your daughter is on the video as this truck passes behind her. Have I got this right?” he asked aloud. “We’re approximately twelve minutes from finding this safe house?” He drove faster. “Let’s shave a little off of that, shall we?” He said to the mirror, “You better say your prayers that we find it. If my friend here is wrong about all this, then it’s my turn. And believe me, I’ve been waiting for this.” He said, “I’ve got a cattle prod in the trunk. A couple other little toys: phosphorus, stun grenades. All courtesy of the U.S. Government. You ever had a stun stick light up your private parts while you’re half blind and completely deaf? I’d be thinking about that, if I were you. You can save yourself a lot of grief. Boldt here gives me thirty minutes with you in one of these barns? You won’t know what hit you, sweetheart, and you’ll be talking a blue streak, believe me.”
Mention of the weapons brought Boldt a step closer to realizing the task before them. Of primary importance was to keep Flemming screwed into his socket. But of equal concern was that their daughters were in that house under the watch and care of Roger Crowley. Besides his sidearm and the stun stick, Flemming had pressure and phosphorus grenades, but the latter were useless with kids in the picture. Stun grenades could rupture a victim’s sinuses and eardrums if detonated too close. Phosphorus grenades occasionally did permanent eye damage in the process of “momentarily” blinding a suspect; they were also on record as having set a great many structural fires. Flemming sounded eager to use his toys. Boldt would not allow that. The man was a greater liability than their passenger.
“There,” Flemming said, pointing out a white house to their right. “That’s the 11:51 delivery. That house, right there. By 12:19 he’s made-”
“She’s made twelve miles,” Boldt answered, correcting the driver’s gender.
“So
“Highway 536,” Boldt reminded, naming the state highway. “It’s probably posted at fifty-five.”
Flemming picked up the speed, and Boldt’s heart rate right along with it. Sarah was somewhere within a few miles, he felt certain of it. His palms sweating, he took back the map, measured distances and checked street names.
Flemming glanced at his watch. “Somewhere past here, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Within the next five miles.”
“On our left again,” the driver said.
“Correct.” Boldt checked the hostage, hoping to see some faint recognition in the woman’s eyes, but she was either in shock or in complete control of herself. He saw nothing at all, a smug vacancy that made him fear they were nowhere near the safe house.
The miles ticked on. Not one of the houses had a decent size tree planted close enough to a central window to qualify. Again, the property lining the roadway was dead flat, not elevated as had clearly been the case in Sarah’s video.
“I’m not liking this,” Flemming said.
“No,” Boldt agreed.
“I got a hunch your little theory stinks,” the driver said. He glanced into the rearview mirror. “I think we’re wasting our time.” He added, “We’ve got all the answers we need right there. You may be too weak to stomach it, but I’m not. I’ve waited six months for this.”
“Drive it again,” Boldt said.
“What for? Those houses weren’t even close.”
“Maybe another route,” Boldt said, vamping for time. “Maybe I got the route wrong. Turn around.”
Flemming hung a U-turn, but drove fast. “And make that kind of time? No. You picked the right route. That delivery truck had to be doing forty or fifty to make it to that next drop by twenty after twelve. It’s your theory that’s wrong. Fuck the FedEx truck-she’s a
“And any chance of conviction-”
“Oh, bullshit! Does Sarah care about conviction? Do you? Are you honestly going to go Boy Scout on me here? You gonna explain that to your wife, to Sarah? Forget about it. Nice try. No sell. You want this as badly as I do. Admit it. You don’t give a shit about this scumbag in the backseat, about conviction. You want justice, same as me. Believe me, justice will be served.” He stopped the car. In the distance, in the moonlight, a barn shimmered in a dark field of cut-flower stems that without their blossoms reminded Boldt of long rows of thin soldiers.
“Looks good to me,” Flemming said. He rocked his head to look at Crowley. He looked half mad. “How ’bout to you?”
CHAPTER 82
Flemming took the car keys as he climbed out, and Boldt lost any hope of stealing the car and the hostage while Flemming walked back to the trunk. The FedEx truck was not
