‘I know. I saw the sign on the way down, which is why I’ve taken it,’ said Jane, accelerating, eyes fixedly forward. ‘We’re not going back to the cabin, not yet anyway. I think you and I have got much much more to talk about, don’t you, Alice?’
When Alice didn’t reply Jane said: ‘When you next speak to Gene Hanlan you can tell him you were tricked. And that now it’s you who’s been kidnapped.’
The FBI spotter plane was disappointing. The pilot complained thermal updrafts made it difficult to fly as low as he needed, for a satisfactory search, which was further hampered by thick forest ground cover over wide tracts of the mountain range. Neither he nor the observer had seen a single vehicle resembling a Volkswagen. After two flights Hanlan suspended the aerial search but kept the plane on standby.
It was not until just after nine thirty that Hanlan was finally able to relay the licence number and specifications of Alice’s light-grey vehicle to Patrick McKinnon, who estimated that they were still thirty minutes short of West Milford. Hanlan duplicated the vehicle details to the relevant Highway Patrol offices and all police forces in a twenty-mile-wide arc between Paterson and West Milford. He also copied everything to Highway Patrol and state police headquarters at Trenton.
When McKinnon came back on the line Hanlan was telling the Northcote firm’s lawyer Geoffrey Davis of his conversation with Jane Carver, anxious to discover if she had instructed the man to oppose legal access to the Citibank safe deposit, which she hadn’t. Hanlan said he’d call back.
‘They were ahead of us again,’ announced McKinnon. ‘They took down the Snelling mailbox marker: we overshot first time. Place has been ransacked. Not as bad as the photographs we saw of Litchfield but close.’
‘Any signs of violence… blood…?’
‘None. There should be forensics, though. We’ve driven over their car tracks but there should be something left.’
‘I’ll send up the guys we brought back from Washington,’ said Hanlan. ‘They’re due to finish what little was left at Litchfield and Brooklyn. What about the Volkswagen?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘It would be there, if they’d been grabbed. They’re still running, together.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said McKinnon. ‘What do you want us to do?’
Hanlan wished he knew. ‘Leave a couple of guys to see nothing gets touched. Make a base in the town, ready to move. I’ll put the plane up again: hope something comes from the road checks.’ He wished to Christ there was something more practical he could do than sit around hoping.
Barbara Donnelly said: ‘Why have they done it?’
‘Maybe it’s a good job they did,’ said Ginette, when Hanlan recounted his conversation with McKinnon. ‘If they’d been there, we might have found bodies.’
The forensics team had finished what little was left for them to do. Because of the initial dismissal of both as accidents, the Bureau reinvestigation of the deaths of George Northcote and Janice Snow was largely restricted to autopsies, although by dismantling the lock of Janice’s apartment – as they had in Princes Street – the scientists found unquestionable evidence of the lock having been picked. A Bureau pathologist at Brooklyn also established from the direction of the bone-splintering that it would have been impossible for Janice Snow to have broken her fingers falling from her supposed hanging. The beginning of decomposition made a positive finding difficult but from the detailed medical examination of George Northcote it appeared that the multiple lacerations to the face and head – wounds which were belatedly discovered to have blinded the man – were more likely to have been caused by a blade thinner and sharper than that of the cutting machine into which Northcote was alleged to have fallen.
‘Nothing I’d like to go into court with but they weren’t accidents,’ the forensics leader told Hanlan. ‘What are we looking for in the cabin?’
‘Anything,’ said Hanlan, exasperated. ‘Anything at all. Just make it something I can work from!’
The two Mafia consiglieri had been informed of every word exchanged between Gene Hanlan and Patrick McKinnon because the Cavalcante searchers in the Bearfort Mountains were getting perfect scanner reception on McKinnon’s cellphone. It also gave them all the details of Alice Belling’s Volkswagen, which were duplicated within thirty minutes of Hanlan providing them to the Highway Patrol headquarters at Trenton, where the Cavalcante Family had a paid informer in the communications room.
Tony Caputo said: ‘We can’t have missed them by much.’
‘We still missed them,’ said Charlie Petrie. He needed to stay here in Trenton, hear at once what was happening, but he was desperate to get back to Manhattan and convene a conference with the other New York Families. It was obvious what had to be done with the Belling woman. But how – what pressure could they use? – to get Carver’s wife to retrieve what was in the safe-deposit vault?
‘We won’t next time,’ promised the Cavalcante lawyer. ‘We got everyone out there, waiting.’
‘We’ve got to move quicker than that,’ insisted Petrie. There was only one way he could think of and he had to know if it had already been set up. When Stanley Burcher immediately answered his Algonquin telephone Petrie knew that it hadn’t.
‘You spoken to Northcote’s lawyers?’ Petrie demanded.
‘I’m still working it out.’
‘What’s to work out?’
‘I’ve got to have every answer ready because they’re going to have a lot of questions,’ said the intermediary lawyer. The tiredness he felt from a long day had nothing to do with the 7.00 a.m. breakfast meeting. All he’d done since then was sit in his hotel room trying – but failing – to evolve an approach that would not bring him into direct, identifiable contact with the Northcote firm’s attorney who had been pointed out to him at the Plaza Hotel.
‘Stan, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to call the guy, right now: this minute. You got to get whatever’s in that fucking bank. You do that and you’re going to be a rich and happy man for the rest of your life.’
He was already a rich man, Burcher reminded himself. And what sort of life would he have if he didn’t get what Carver had copied? He could always run, Burcher told himself. It wasn’t that he’d neglected the possible need for an escape route.
Alice tried at the beginning – once briefly breaking down in tears, although of frustration, not collapse, and then in annoyance that she’d broken down at all – but was finally silenced by Jane’s total refusal to respond or acknowledge Alice’s every insistence upon their physical danger, up to and including murder, with tortured interrogation in between. For almost an hour Jane refused to stop despite Alice’s whimpering need for a restroom and by mid-afternoon they were way beyond the Paterson/West Milford arc that Hanlan had stipulated for his road watch. Jane’s eventual halt was at a truck stop, like an oasis in reverse among the verdant pines and firs, a scoured-bald dust bowl of petrol and diesel pumps bordering the road and a stinking, cockroach-infested block of excreta-blocked toilets the stink of which made Alice’s vomiting worse. No water came from the taps when she tried to rinse her mouth or wash her hands.
It was a further hour, close to four in the afternoon, before Jane pulled into another truck stop, although at this one an intermittently dead-bulbed sign boasted of a pay-in-advance, cash-only motel at its rear.
‘Your treat,’ Jane announced. ‘Time to make those calls.’
The motel was a single-storey prefabrication of paint-stripped cabins, theirs a boxed, twin-bedded room with opaquely thin curtains and opaquely thin grey sheets beneath candlewick spreads. Both were patterned by long ago stains, mostly brown although sometimes black to match those on the threadbare, frayed carpeting. The one chair sagged out of any shape, its back black from the grease of a thousand unwashed heads. The bulb was missing over the processed-wood bureau, the mirror of which was whorled with verdigris. There was a urine smell from the open-doored, cockroach-scuttling bathroom.
Alice said: ‘I’m not going to stay here! This is disgusting.’
Jane said: ‘You’ll stay because I say so. Because this is just the place for us to talk about the things we have to talk about. And where no one in their wildest dreams would think of looking for us, finding us. I’m protecting you now, Alice.’
Jane turned dismissively away, concentrating upon the number she was dialling, instinctively smiling at the immediate connection but at once frowning, impatiently talking over the babble from the other end the moment she identified herself.
‘I know…! I know…! I’ve spoken to him… I know… I’m all right. Rosemary! Stop talking, Rosemary! Listen…’ She looked at Alice when the sound stopped from the other end of the line. ‘Do you mind?’
