But it was too late. The man was back. He stood in the room, not five feet from her. He saw what she had done. But Grace did not notice that. She was, in fact, not looking at the man’s face at all. She stared openmouthed at the man’s right hand.
The man let go. And there, falling to the floor by his side, was Jack.
chapter 46
Grace dove toward him. “Jack? Jack?”
His eyes were closed. His hair was matted to his forehead. Her hands were still bound, but she was able to hold his face. Jack’s skin was clammy. His lips were dry and caked over. There was duct tape around his legs. A handcuff hung around his right wrist. She could see scabs on his left wrist. It had been cuffed too, for a long time judging by the marks.
She called his name again. Nothing. She lowered her ear to his mouth. He was breathing. She could see that. Shallow, but he was breathing. She shifted around and put his head in her lap. Her rib pain screamed but that was irrelevant now. He lay flat on his back, her lap his pillow. Her mind fell back to the grape groves in that vineyard in Saint-Emilion. They’d been together about three months by then, totally infatuated, jammed neatly in that sprint-across-the-park, thumping-of-the-heart-whenever-you-see-the-person stage. She packed some pate, some cheese, wine of course. The day had been sun-kissed, the sky the kind of blue that made you believe in the angels. They’d lain down on a red tartan blanket, his head in her lap like this, she stroking his hair. She’d spent more time staring at him than the natural wonders that surrounded them. She’d traced his face with her fingers.
Grace made her voice soft, tried to ease up on the panic.
“Jack?”
His eyes fluttered open. His pupils were too large. It took him a moment to focus, and then he saw her. For a moment his caked lips cracked into a smile. Grace wondered if he too was flashing back to that same picnic. Her heart burst, but she managed to smile back. There was a serene moment, no more, and then reality flooded in. Jack’s eyes widened in panic. The smile vanished. His face crumbled into anguish.
“Oh God.”
“It’s okay,” she said, even though that was about as dumb a statement as one could make under the circumstances.
He was trying not to cry. “I’m so sorry, Grace.”
“Shhh, it’s okay.”
Jack’s eyes searched like beacons, finding their captor. “She doesn’t know anything,” he said to the man. “Let her go.”
The man took a step closer. He bent down on his haunches. “If you speak again,” he said to Jack, “I will hurt her. Not you. Her. I will hurt her very badly. Do you understand?”
Jack closed his eyes and nodded.
He stood back up. He kicked Jack off her lap, grabbed Grace by the hair, and pulled her to a standing position. With his other hand he clutched Jack by the neck.
“We need to take a ride,” he said.
Perlmutter and Duncan had just gotten off the Garden State Parkway at Interstate 287, no more than five miles from the house in Armonk, when the call was radioed in:
“They were here-Lawson’s Saab is still in the driveway-but they’re gone now.”
“How about Beatrice Smith?”
“Nowhere in sight. We just got here. We’re still checking the residence.”
Perlmutter thought about it. “Wu would figure that Charlaine Swain would report seeing him. He’d know he had to get rid of the Saab. Do you know if Beatrice Smith had a car?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Is there any other car in the driveway or garage?”
“Hold on.” Perlmutter waited. Duncan looked at him. Ten seconds later: “No other car.”
“Then they took hers. Find out the make and license plate. Get an APB out right away.”
“Okay, got it. Wait, hold on a second, Captain.” He was gone again.
Scott Duncan said, “Your computer expert. She thought that Wu was maybe a serial killer.”
“She thought it was a possibility.”
“You don’t believe it though.”
Perlmutter shook his head. “He’s a pro. He doesn’t pick victims for jollies. Sykes lived alone. Beatrice Smith is a widow. Wu needs a place to stay and operate. This is how he finds those places.”
“So he’s a gun for hire.”
“Something like that.”
“Any thoughts on who he’s working for?”
Perlmutter held the wheel. He took the Armonk exit. They were only about a mile away now. “I was hoping you or your client might have an idea.”
The radio crackled. “Captain? You still there?”
“I am.”
“One car registered to Mrs. Beatrice Smith. A tan Land Rover. License plate 472-JXY.”
“Get an APB out on it. They can’t be far.”
chapter 48
The tan Land Rover stayed on side roads. Grace had no idea where they were headed. Jack was lying on the floor of the backseat. He had passed out. His legs were duct-taped together. His hands were cuffed behind him. Grace’s hands were still bound in front of her. Her captor, she figured, had seen no reason to make her put them back.
In the backseat Jack groaned like a wounded animal. Grace looked at their captor, his placid face, one hand on the wheel like a father taking the family out for a Sunday drive. She ached. Every breath was a reminder of what he’d done to her ribs. Her knee felt as if it’d been ripped apart by shrapnel.
“What did you do to him?” she asked.
She tensed, awaiting the blow. She almost didn’t care. She was beyond that. But the man did not lash out. He did not stay silent either. He pointed with his thumb toward Jack.
“Not as much,” he said, “as he did to you.”
She stiffened. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Now, for the first time, she saw a genuine smile. “I think you know.”
“I don’t have the slightest idea,” she said.
He still smiled, and maybe, somewhere deep inside of her, the gnawing started to grow. She tried to cast it off, tried to concentrate on getting out of this, on saving Jack. She asked, “Where are you taking us?”
He did not reply.
“I said-”
“You’re brave,” he interrupted.
She said nothing.
“Your husband loves you. You love him. It makes this easier.”
“Makes what easier?”
He glanced toward her. “You both may be willing to risk pain. But are you willing to let me hurt your husband?”
She did not reply.
“The same thing I said to him: If you talk again, I won’t hurt you. I’ll hurt him.”
The man was right. It worked. She kept silent. She gazed out the window and let the trees blur. They veered onto a two-lane highway. Grace had no idea where. The area was rural. She could see that. They took two more roads and now Grace knew where they were-the Palisades Parkway heading south, back down toward New Jersey.
The Glock was still in the ankle holster.
The feel of it was constant now. The weapon seemed to be calling to her, mocking her, so close and yet out of reach.
Grace would have to figure a way to get to it. There was no other choice. This man was going to kill them. She was sure of that. He wanted some information first-the origin of that photograph, for one thing-but once he had it, once he realized that she was telling the truth on that score, he would kill them both.
