the grime he’d picked up over the past three days.
Sarah was much too agitated to relax. She decided to send Sela a message. It was too early to call Maryland, and even though her sister wouldn’t mind being awakened, sending her an email seemed more reasonable.
Sarah opened the laptop and connected to the local Internet service in the room. She went to her email account and entered her password. Jarrod’s message was the first one that came up on her screen.
“Ryan!” she screamed. “My God…they’ve got Sela, too. They contacted Jarrod. He was right!”
“Sarah…shhh…keep your voice down,” Ryan called out from the bathroom, worried neighbors would complain about the noise. He reached for a towel before opening the shower curtain. “What are you talking about? How do you know Sela’s been taken?”
“Jarrod sent us a message,” she groaned. “They’ve taken him to run that machine, just as he thought. They’ve also taken Sela for ransom. Ryan, what are we going to do? What’s happening to us? We’re losing our whole family.” She slumped onto the floor, looking stunned. “We need help…we can’t just keep running. I’m calling Pop.”
“Whoa, hold on a sec. Let’s think this through,” Ryan said, trying to process the news. New developments were happening too fast to comprehend. The odds of gaining the upper hand seemed more remote than ever.
“The first thing we should do is call Ben Dare. I’m sure he arranged the PI that was tailing you and Jer; he’ll know what to do about Sela. Call right now. I know it’s early in Washington, but we can’t wait another minute. Ben can start an early search for Sela. Kidnapping a senator’s daughter has national implications and Ben’ll know how to handle it. Don’t worry, honey, they’ll find Sela; we’ll get everyone back,” he said, trying to sound convincing, but he realized his words lacked conviction.
Sarah went to her cell phone and dialed Ben. Her nerves were shattered as she waited impatiently for the phones to connect, nervously pacing the room. She held her free hand across her chest as if embracing herself, trying to hold her fragile emotions in check.
“Hello,” Ben answered, groggily, obviously awakened from a deep sleep.
“Ben, it’s Sarah…Marshall,” she said haltingly. “Sela’s been kidnapped. We need your help…”
“Sarah? It’s been a long time,” Ben replied, trying to clear his head, surprised by the information he thought he’d just heard. “What’s this about Sela? Tell me everything that’s happened.”
“Gladly,” she replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Let me start at the beginning…”
THIRTY-FIVE
Livermore
05:30 HOURS
The alarm went off at 5:30 a.m., arousing the man from sleep. He reached over, silenced the alarm and sat up on the edge of the bed. By habit, he turned to kiss his wife lightly on the forehead and whispered, “I love you” softly into her ear. Then he stood up, dragged himself groggily to the bathroom, his head still trying to make sense of the early hour. He pulled on his sweats, donned his running shoes and before he really realized what he was doing, found himself stretching on the pavement in front of his house, getting ready for his daily four-mile run through the municipal park and back.
Steven McCauley’s routine was as predictable as salmon swimming upstream. He prided himself on staying in shape, something most engineers only gave lip-service to following an annual physical. But McCauley’s passion for physical fitness bordered on obsession. Every workday was a success when it began with sixty minutes of exercise, no matter what else happened during the day. Likewise, if he missed his early morning workout before a tedious day at the lab, it seemed as if the whole day was wasted. Such was the regimen of this alcoholic-turned- fitness aficionado.
McCauley considered the run to Hidden Park and back the perfect distance: almost exactly a mile from his house. It took him less than ten minutes to traverse this distance, which allowed enough time to complete two circuits around the perimeter of the park. From start to finish, the four-mile run could be completed in less than fifty minutes.
This was his favorite part of the day and he was never deterred by the weather. His daily hour-long jog was the prescription that kept him sane and out of the doctor’s office. He’d also had more than one strike of enlightenment while making his customary run. Nothing took its place.
Hidden Park was aptly named-it couldn’t be seen from the street and was surrounded by contiguous houses on all sides; alleyways were the only access to the park. Even though the City of Livermore had it well marked, most people using the park lived close by. There were hundred-year-old sycamore trees that populated the park, and a series of natural caves and small hillocks made it a great place for kids to play capture the flag and other war games. The Livermore police routinely patrolled this area, so most crimes that would normally be associated with a secluded park were almost nonexistent-pot-smoking being the only criminal activity that regularly took place in the park’s numerous secret hiding places. McCauley especially liked Hidden Park because it brought him a sense of solitude to start his day.
McCauley conducted his run in typical fashion, warming up slowly the first half-mile, but achieving full stride by the time he entered the park. There was a hill at the southern entrance, which, depending on the direction he ran, would require he either run up the hill at the start or down it at the finish. He usually liked to run up the hill, finding it more forgiving on his knees than the additional pounding they took running downhill. Today, however, he decided to run in a clockwise direction, which would mean running downhill on the way home. His knees, after all, were responding favorably to the daily dose of glucosamine chondroitin for his joints.
McCauley was just rounding the bend that led from the top of the hill back to the park’s southern entrance when he noticed another jogger dressed in slate gray sweats approaching him on the path ahead. A new guy- must’ve just moved in, he thought. McCauley rarely saw anyone on the path at this early hour.
As he drew near the jogger, it was difficult to distinguish much about his features. The man wore sunglasses and had pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over the top of his head, partially obscuring his face. As the distance between the two runners closed, however, the man in the gray sweats abruptly stopped, pulling something from the small of his back. The jogger had withdrawn a large handgun and pointed it directly at McCauley. A second later a muffled spit of fire issued from the muzzle of the gun. McCauley tumbled and fell to the ground as a jolt of pain pierced his left thigh. I can’t believe it…I’ve been shot!
Steven McCauley lost his focus on everything but the man in the gray sweatshirt, whose threatening presence seemed to envelop him like smoke from a smoldering campfire. Before he could register a protest, the muzzle of the nine-millimeter Lugar fired again, the second shot piercing the middle of his chest. Bewildered and unable to grasp what was happening, he tried to escape, haphazardly clawing the ground in an effort to back away from his oncoming assailant. His efforts were of little use as the man was now straddling him from above, pointing the gun directly at his face. It was at this moment that he heard the last words he would ever hear.
“This is for Dallas Weaver, ya bloody wanker.”
The man in the gray sweats then fired a third round into McCauley’s face, the bullet entering his mouth just above the chin, ripping his jaw apart. McCauley’s hands made involuntary, spastic movements caused by the shock and trauma to his body. He tried to scream, but no sound would come from his mouth. He put his hands to his face but could feel nothing below his nose.
Just as with Dallas, McCauley’s carotid artery had been severed, the blood pumping out in spurts with each contraction of his heart. The man stared passively down at McCauley now, watching the life force ebb from his victim’s helpless body, relishing the confusion in his eyes as he struggled to make sense of what was happening. The running path was awash with blood and it was only a moment later that Steven McCauley breathed his last breath, his eyes staring blankly toward the sky as the life force spirited back into the heavens.
“There ya have it, Mr. McCauley. We’re all square,” Kilmer said, and slowly resumed his solitary jog back to the entrance of Hidden Park, content he’d evened the score for the death of his trusted friend.
