An old-fashioned Flying A sign balanced precariously on the building's roof. No sign of anyone as we bumped to a stop. No Gary Soneji. No Maggie Rose. Not yet, anyway.
Someone left a light out, I thought to myself. Now, where the hell are they?
“Is this where we're making the exchange for Maggie Rose?” I went at the armrest again. Another yank with most of my strength behind it.
The contact man got up from his seat. He squeezed past me. He started to climb out of the plane. He was holding the suitcase with the ten million.
“Good-bye, Detective Cross,” he turned and said. “Sorry, but I have to run. Don't bother searching the area later. The girl isn't here. Not even close to here. We're back in the States, by the way. You're in South Carolina now.”
“Where is the girl?” I yelled after him, straining at the handcuffs attached to the armrest. Where was the FBI? How far behind us were they?
I had to do something. I had to act now. I stood up to get some leverage, then pulled with all my weight and strength at the small plane's armrest. I yanked the armrest again and again. The plastic and metal piece ripped halfway out of the seat. I kept at it. The other half of the armrest broke off with a ripping noise like a deep and painful tooth extraction.
Two running strides and I was at the plane's open doorway. The contact man was already down on the ground, getting away with the suitcase. I dived at him. I needed to slow him until the Bureau got there. I also wanted to flatten the bastard, show him who was doing the controlling now.
I hit the contact man like a hawk striking a field rat. both struck the tarinac hard, woofing out air. The armrest still dangled from my handcuffs. Metal raked across his face and drew blood. I belted him once with my free arm.
“Where is Maggie Rose? Where is she?” I shouted at the top of my lungs To my left, over the shiny darkness of the sea, I could see lights floating toward us, approaching fast. It had to be the Bureau. Their surveillance planes were coming to the rescue. They had managed to follow us.
Just then I was hit on the back of my neck. It felt like a lead pipe. I didn't go out immediately. Soneji? a voice inside me screamed. A second hard blow cracked the back of my skull, the tender part. This time, I went down for the count. I never saw who was doing the swinging, or what he had used.
When I came to, the small airfield in South Carolina was a raft of dazzling lights and activity. The FBI was there in full force. So were the local Carolina police. EMS ambulances and fire engines were everywhere.
The contact man was gone, though, So was the tenmillion-dollar ransom. He'd made a clean getaway. Perfect planning on Soneji's part. Another perfect move.
“The little girl? Maggie Rose?” I asked a balding emergency doctor tending the wounds on my head. “No sir,” he said in a slow drawl. 'The little girl is still missing. Maggie Rose Dunne was never seen around here.
Along Came A Spider
CHAPTER 25
IUSFIELD, MARYLAND, lay under gloomy, elephant gray skies. It had been raining on and off for most of the day. A lone police car raced along rainslicked country roads with its siren screaming. Inside the car were Artie Marshall and Chester Dils. Dils was twenty-six, which made him exactly twenty years younger than Marshall. Like many young, rural policemen, he had dreams of getting out of the areathe same kind of hopes and dreams he'd had while attending Wilde Lake High School in Columbia.
But here he was, still in Crisfield. Twin Peaks II, he liked to call the town of under three thousand.
Dils almost physically ached to become a Maryland state trooper. It was tricky sledding because of the demanding trooper exams, especially the math. But becoming a trooper would get him the hell out of Somerset County. Maybe as far away as Salisbury or Chestertown. Neither Dils nor especially mild-mannered Artie Mar
I was ready for the exposure and the quicksilver tations they were about to get. Just like that on the afternoon of the thirtieth of December. A telephone call had come into their station house on Old Hurley Road. A couple of hunters had spotted something that looked suspicious over in West Crisfield, on the way to the camping ground on Tangier Island. The hunters had found an abandoned vehicle. A blue Chevy minivan.
For the past several days, anything and everything vaguely suspicious immediately got associated with the big Washington kidnapping. That pattern had gotten old real fast. Dils and Marshall were ordered to check it out, anyway. A blue minivan had been used to take the kids from the school.
The afternoon was dying when they arrived at the farm out on Route 413. It was even a little spooky heading down the badly rutted dirt road onto the property.
“Old farm or something back here?” Dils asked his partner. Dils was behind the wheel. Doing about fifteen on the muddy, rutted road. Artie Marshall prefeffed to ride shotgun, sans the shotgun.
“Yeah. Nobody lives here now, though. I doubt this'll amount to anything monumental, Chesty. ”
“That's the beauty of The Job,” Chester Dils said. “You never know. Monumental is always out there somewhere.” He had a short-standing habit of making everything. a little more glamorous than it actually was. He had his dream and all his big ideas, but Artie Marshall thought of them more as the immaturity of a younger man. They arrived at the dilapidated barn that the hunters had mentioned iR their call to the station. “ Let's go for a look-see,” Marshall said, trying to match the younger officer's enthusiasm.
Chester Dils hopped out of the squad car. Artie Marshall followed, though not at the same sprightly pace. They approached a badly faded red barn, a low building that looked as if it had sunk a couple of feet into the ground since its heyday. The hunters had stopped at the barn to get out of the rainstorm earlier that afternoon. Then they had called the police.
The barn was fairly dark and gloomy inside. The windows had been covered over with cheesecloth. Artie
