mind, to confirm the existence of heaven.
Kathy runs like the wind, feeling light and strong and filled with an exhilarating sense of joy. She has no fear because everything she has ever feared has already come to pass. Her heart is open, her eyes are clear. She knows absolutely that her blessed daughter, Stacy, watches and approves, rooting for her to help the little boy with the music in his hands.
At some point, as if letting her feet find the way, she cuts across the wide expanse of the runway, heading for the north side of the hangar. A high wall of gray corrugated metal. It is there that she believes she will find Joey, there that he will be saved. She believes that in that same miraculous moment she, too, will be saved, and nothing on this earth will stop her from trying.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Randall Shane, doing his best to keep up-his long legs should easily be outrunning my own-seems to have come hard up against the limits of what his damaged body can deliver. We’re barely out of the woods when he doubles over, clutching his left knee, and wobbles to a halt. Through a grimace of pain he says, “Torn ligaments. Sorry. I can walk but apparently I can’t run.”
He reaches into a trouser pocket, retrieves the snub-nosed.38 Smith amp; Wesson and places it in my hands. “Fully loaded,” he cautions. “Concealed hammer, double-action. Pull the trigger all the way and it fires.”
I accept the weapon, feeling about as confident as a first-day medical student being dropped into the middle of brain surgery. That one time at the range I had managed to empty a five-shot cylinder without hitting the target.
“I may be the worst shot in Boston,” I warn him.
“Then consider yourself armed and dangerous. Go. I’ll try and catch up.”
“The woman is crazy, you know.”
Shane shakes his head. “She’s not afraid to die. That’s not the same thing as crazy. I’ll be right along. Please, just go, do what you can.”
What the hell. Maybe this is the day I get to be a hero, or to help one out. I slip the little snubby in my waistband and bolt across the wide concrete runway, following the skinny gazelle with the crazy, wonderful light in her eyes.
Probably no more than a few hundred yards, but it feels like miles. Not because the running is hard-I have adrenaline to spare-but because it’s so exposed. I feel like a big fly on a windowpane, waiting for the swatter to splat me. But if there’s anybody watching, they give no sign, no shouts or sirens, and I reach the hangar wall unimpeded.
Pausing for just a moment to catch my breath, aware of the heat radiating from the corrugated steel. Kathy Mancero, poised at the far end of the hangar, beckons me forward. Eyes still so intense I can barely meet her gaze.
“You’ve got the gun?”
I reach to my waist, prepared to hand it over.
“No, no, keep it. I’d be afraid of hitting Joey. Just cover me.”
Great. I’m hoping Shane gets here fast. I’m keenly aware that without the necessary skill, and the willingness to use it, a handgun isn’t much more than a prop. I make a silent vow to sign up for more firing-range lessons, as many as it takes. Hoping that it won’t be too little, too late.
From inside the hangar we hear the creak and moan of the huge doors lifting, steel on steel, bucking and grinding. A noise that will surely cover our footsteps as we edge along and find the outside corner of the massive building.
“Inside,” Kathy whispers, her breath strangely cool as it brushes my ear.
Before I quite understand, she ducks into the shadows just inside the hangar.
There’s nothing for me to do but follow. My heart slams like a two-year-old in full tantrum. I’m aware of a mass of cooler air, the chill of shadows hushed within the hangar. Crouching, I attempt to make myself small as the jet passes into the interior, the end of the wing only yards away, being smoothly pulled by the little tractor. My eyes gradually adjust-the interior illumination does little to pierce the vast dimness of the hangar-and realize, with great relief, that I haven’t been spotted because there’s nobody to see me, or, for that matter, Kathy, who continues to slip along against the wall, finding cover as she goes. There are no security guards, no ground crew or mechanics, no one but the gleaming jet and the man on the tractor, whose back is toward us.
When the jet is fully inside the hangar, the man on the tractor climbs off and removes his noise-muffling headgear, revealing a wool cap pulled down to his ears.
Him. The guy from the closet. The home invader who put a gun to my head.
Kathy recognizes him, as well. She slips back to me, close enough to grip my arm and whisper in my ear. “That’s Kidder. Joey can’t be far away.”
She seems exhilarated by the thought, almost giddy with purpose. I’m about to suggest that maybe we should make a plan, coordinate our efforts, but my eager companion has already moved on.
I slip behind a waist-high chest of mechanic tools and peek around the corner. This Kidder dude has his back to us. He seems to be talking to himself, shaking his head, as if in an argument with himself. Then I spot the slim microphone wand extending from beneath the wool cap and realize he’s equipped with a Bluetooth headset. He’s talking to someone, taking orders or arguing, or both. Whatever, he seems frustrated, not in complete control, and that gives me a little more confidence. Maybe we can pull this off, after all. Assuming the boy is nearby-though I’ve seen no sign of him yet.
As Kidder turns in my direction I pull back behind the tool chest. Trusting the dimness to hide me. Not that Kidder has given any sign of awareness that he’s under observation. He seems to be concentrating on his headset.
His posture tense and angry, he reaches up to thump on the tail section of the jet. A moment later a hatch opens and a stairway begins to unfold. I expect someone to descend-a pilot or possibly a flight attendant-but no one emerges. Apparently there’s no one in the passenger compartment, or if there is they’re not revealing themselves to Kidder, who stands below the stairway, shaking his head in frustration.
“Idiots,” he mutters. “Do I have to do everything myself?” Then, louder, into the headset, “Are you ready for the package or not? Okay, fine. Whatever you want. It’s just us chickens out here, so have a little patience.”
The man with the wool cap and the deeply aggrieved attitude climbs back on the tractor and retreats into the gloom. The only sound in the vast hangar is the electric whine of the tractor motor, and the small hard wheels spinning along the concrete floor.
Part of me wants to leave the protection of the tool chest and run after him, waving the gun and demanding Joey, but my best instincts tell me that would be futile. That would be giving up my best weapon: the element of surprise. Have patience, wait until you know where the boy is and that you can make him safe. So I remain in place, watching as the little tractor closes in on a white panel van parked deep in the shadows at the rear of the hangar.
Kathy, appearing out of nowhere with a suddenness that nearly stops my heart, hisses, “That’s it. The same van that came to fetch Joey, there’s no doubt.”
“We should wait,” I say. “Let him bring the boy to us. Then we get the jump.”
Adding, in my own mind, and let’s hope Shane is here by then, he’ll know what to do.
“Bring him to us,” Kathy repeats, as if mulling it over. “Okay, that makes sense.”
Kidder gets off the tractor, opens the rear door of the van, blocking our view. When he gets back on the tractor he has something with him. As he emerges from behind the van he’s towing a little low-bed trailer, the kind they use to transport luggage. On the trailer is a crate, of the size that might be suitable for a medium-size dog.
