Phantom Limb (13 page)

“This was the place they first brought us.” Gloria hugged herself against the chill.

Even in the poor light, I could make out the industrial printing presses. The massive rollers. I also noted the faded posters on the walls. Bundles of brochures and flyers thrown haphazardly into corners. Old samples, maybe.

“An abandoned printing company.” I glanced about me. “Large-scale jobs. Probably couldn't keep it going anymore.”

She nodded. “So Sykes took possession. Unofficially. Turned the adjacent offices into rooms like the one we were in. About as far below the radar as his fancy customers could want.”

By now, we'd reached the other side of the work area. A huge pair of doors-on-wheels served as the entrance to this end of the immense structure.

“This was where we were driven in.” Gloria frowned. “But where the hell's the van? No other cars, either. Looks like they've all left. Sykes, Griffin and that other guy. With the long hair.”

I regarded her. “Which makes me think you're right about Lisa. They've got her stashed somewhere else.”

“
If
she's still alive…”

It took a few minutes, but we finally found an unlocked service door. Stepping out into a cold, wind-whipped night, we crossed a broad gravel lot to the nearest street corner.

“Where are we?” She squinted in the feeble light of an overhead lamp a dozen yards away.

As my own eyes adjusted to the flooding darkness, I looked around, trying to get my bearings. For a dozen blocks in every direction there was nothing but garbage-strewn vacant lots, abandoned cars, and low-roofed, dilapidated buildings. The whole blasted landscape eerily illuminated by fires blazing from a scattering of trash cans.

Squinting, I could now see that there were people huddled around the fires. Homeless. In twos and threes, warming their hands at the flames. Wrapped in old blankets.

Finally, from the slope of the streets and the shining sliver of the Allegheny River visible to the east, I figured out where we were. Somewhere in the Hill District. Predominantly black and achingly poor, it was what playwright August Wilson once called “an amalgam of the unwanted.” Having been born here, he knew what he was talking about.

Suddenly I thought of Eleanor Lowrey. She, too, had been born and raised in the Hill. And, like Wilson, she'd worked her way up and out of grinding poverty and the ravages of unfettered street violence to build a meaningful life.

The image of her in my mind brought me up short. It was crazy—
absurd
—given what Gloria Reese and I had just gone through. What we were
still
going through. But for a moment, I found myself wondering where Eleanor was. How she was doing. When, if ever, I'd see her again…

A shout from Gloria abruptly shook these thoughts loose.

“Danny! A phone!”

I turned to find her walking briskly toward a pay phone attached to a pole about thirty yards away. I hurried to catch up. When I did, I found her standing in front of the chipped, graffiti-covered phone. Its receiver cord severed. Useless.

“Dammit!” She pounded the top of the phone with her fist.

Just then, the street was swept by the twin headlights of an approaching car. Gloria and I both turned at the same time.

It was an old Ford Torino wagon, tailpipe scraping the asphalt as it lumbered slowly toward the corner. Though the streets were empty, the driver paused at the stop sign.

Gloria gave me a quick smile, then bolted toward the car. I followed.

Before the car started moving again, Gloria ran up to the driver's side window and flashed her Bureau ID badge. By the time I came to stand behind her, the driver had slowly rolled down his window.

It was a teenager, black, about sixteen or seventeen. He wore the uniform of a fast food chain. He also wore glasses and a pained, resigned expression.

“Shit, man, am I gettin' jacked?”

I felt bad. He seemed like a nice kid, coming home from working the late shift. Life was probably tough enough for him, without two crazy white people commandeering his car.

Which was exactly what Gloria told him we were going to do.

Chapter Eighteen

The first thing the Feds did—only minutes after Gloria and I stumbled into the FBI's downtown office—was split us up. Two apparently senior colleagues, both older males, flanked Agent Reese as they hurried down the lobby corridor of the Federal Building, all talking at once. In the urgent mix of voices, I could make out Gloria detailing the location of the abandoned printing facility. She also identified our captors, Raymond Sykes and his men, explaining their obvious involvement in Lisa Campbell's kidnapping.

At the same time, one of the senior agents was barking into his cell, demanding to be connected to Lieutenant Stu Biegler. I knew that, following jurisdictional protocols, the Bureau would have to give Pittsburgh PD first crack at the possible whereabouts of the kidnappers.

The trio of agents had no sooner disappeared around the corner than I was placed in a cramped, windowless interview room, where I gave my statement about the night's events into a tape recorder. The blond, callow junior agent sitting opposite me—a kid named Riggs—could barely keep his eyes open. Not that I blamed him. It was after four a.m., and the vending machine coffee he'd brought in for us was weak as broth.

An hour before, Gloria Reese had driven the borrowed Torino out of the Hill District, its terrified owner now relegated to the passenger seat. I'd climbed into the back and stayed pretty much quiet during the drive downtown. The tight, compact streets of the sleeping urban core, cradled between the V-shaped embrace of the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers, were whipped by a cold, bitter wind. The night as black and empty as I'd ever seen it. As though even the city's ghosts had fled.

When we'd finally pulled up to the curb in front of the Federal Building, Gloria turned in her seat to offer her hand to the kid. He merely stared at her through his smudged glasses, by now more aggrieved than anxious.

Before we got out of his car, I reached over the seat-back and gave him a twenty from my wallet.

“Gas money,” I said.

Now he was staring at
me
. Maybe he felt insulted or condescended to. And maybe he was right. Nevertheless, he took the cash. Then he slid back behind the wheel, put his car in gear, and headed down the deserted, night-shrouded streets. Returning once more to the Hill, his home. A few miles—and an entire world—away.

I kept seeing the kid's face in my mind the whole time I was giving my statement. Now, having finished answering Agent Riggs' questions to his satisfaction, I watched mutely as he made some hurried notes on a pad. Then he rose to his feet, tucked the tape recorder under his arm, and went to the door.

“You stay right here, okay, Doc?”

Stifling a yawn, Riggs strode out of the room, closing the door behind him. Leaving me alone with my thoughts and the cooling Styrofoam cup of watery coffee.

I could guess what was happening in whatever room they were questioning Gloria Reese. As I had, she was describing the night's events. But given Charles Harland's considerable juice—and the political consequences if his wife's kidnapping turned tragic—I knew it wouldn't be into a tape recorder manned by some junior agent on night duty. She'd be making her report to those two superior agents I saw, who'd perhaps even be joined by phone or Skype to someone at Quantico.

In her quiet, calm voice, Gloria would detail how she'd been forced to lure me out of Noah's Ark, and how we'd been taken to an abandoned printing facility in the Hill District. She'd inform her superiors that Ray “Splinter” Sykes and two accomplices—one called Griffin, the other unidentified by name—had questioned me about my therapy session with Lisa Campbell. And that before they could get what they wanted from me, Sykes and his men left to deal with some urgent problem. After which, we had made our escape.

That would be it. The extent of her report. Unless I misread Gloria Reese, I suspected she'd leave out the part about Griffin terrorizing her. Using the knife to open her blouse, cut through her bra.

I reluctantly sipped the thin, tasteless coffee. Gloria was young, female and newly promoted to Special Agent. If she revealed the facts of her ordeal, the threatened sexual violation and mutilation, she'd be instantly taken off the case and ordered to begin treatment with a Bureau shrink, removed for a good while from the field, and assigned to a desk. Dropped a significant number of rungs down the hierarchical ladder, from which it wouldn't be easy to climb up again.

I'd seen similar things happen to officers and detectives in the Pittsburgh PD. And while I understood why Gloria would cover up the facts to safeguard her career, I worried that—like other law enforcement personnel—she'd underestimate the after-effects of her traumatic experience. Suppressing her feelings, keeping silent about what had happened to her. Unless, at some future time, I could persuade her to get help from someone. Some independent clinician, not on the FBI payroll. But not me. I was a witness, an unwitting participant in her terrifying experience, which made me a part of the very thing she'd need to relive, process, and integrate. Her waking nightmare had included me.

***

Another hour passed. Then Agent Riggs stuck his head into the room.

“They want to see you, Doc.”

I got up and followed him down to the end of the lobby corridor, around the corner, and into a paneled conference room. Standard issue FBI. Long metal table, fabric-backed chairs. Bottled water and a burbling coffee carafe on a side table. Rectangular windows whose shades blocked the dawn sun.

Riggs pointed me to a chair, grunted distractedly, and went out the double-doors, closing them behind him.

Lieutenant Biegler, scowling, eyes creased with fatigue, sat opposite me. Next to him was Gloria Reese, narrow shoulders slumped. Jacket still buttoned all the way to the top. Two seats away, sitting on a corner of the table, was one of the senior agents who'd whisked Gloria away when we'd first arrived.

I'd seen the type before. Close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. Taciturn features. Suspicious eyes. Trim, golfer's body beneath the ubiquitous blue suit. He offered me a thin smile.

“My name is Anthony Wilson. Section chief. Agent Reese and I have just teleconferenced with the director, who's conferring with the governor as we speak. Obviously, both are quite concerned about the direction this investigation has taken.”

“Hasn't been a day at the beach for me, either.”

Bristling, Biegler leaned forward and pointed a forefinger at me across the table.

“Stuff it, Rinaldi. This is the part where
you
shut up and the people in charge do the talking.”

I looked from one man to the other.

“And which of you would
that
be?”

Wilson let his smile widen. “This is Pittsburgh PD's case, Doctor. As it has been from the start. The Bureau is only acting in an advisory capacity.”

“So people keep saying. Okay, then. What do you advise?”

“I'd advise you to cooperate with this investigation. By which I mean, tell us everything you can remember about what happened tonight.”

“I already gave my statement. It's on tape, witnessed by one of your guys. Looks like he escaped from a boy band.”

“Lieutenant Biegler and I have just listened to your statement. We believe you left something out.”

“Look, shouldn't your troops and the cops be hauling ass to that printing plant? Maybe Sykes and his men came back. Even if they didn't, there's bound to be evidence or—”

“Not your concern, Rinaldi.” Biegler sniffed. “Besides, we got a SWAT team on the way there now. Plus some of my people working the kidnapping. Agent Reese gave us the location. If those pricks
are
there, we'll nail 'em. And hopefully find Harland's wife in one piece.”

Agent Wilson adjusted his position on the table. Gave me a cool, assured look. He seemed pretty invested in conveying the impression of unflappable composure, of grace under pressure. I also guessed he wanted to separate himself, intellectually and stylistically, from Stu Biegler's tiresome posturing.

“Speaking of Charles Harland,” I said, “how is he?”

“Still in ICU,” the lieutenant replied grimly. “And still critical. Docs say it could go either way.”

“What about the kidnappers? Any more calls?”

“None so far. I just checked in with Sergeant Polk there at the house. He said that Mike Payton and Harland's son James have returned home, too. Not much they can do at the hospital.” A brief, sarcastic laugh. “Any other questions? I wouldn't want you to feel left out.”

“Appreciate that. What about Arthur Drake?”

“Polk says the lawyer's just had another five million in bearer bonds delivered to the residence. So it'll be ready when they get the new ransom demand.”

“
If
the call ever comes. After tonight…”

“Yes.” Wilson slid smoothly off the table edge. Then, hands in his pockets, he peered at me. “About tonight. And what you neglected to mention when you gave your statement…”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said that when you were being questioned by Sykes, he asked you something about the Four Horsemen. Mind telling us what that means?”

“I would if I could. No idea.”

“This was in reference to what Lisa Campbell might have disclosed during your therapy session, correct?”

“Sykes wanted to know if she'd mentioned the Four Horsemen. And I told him I couldn't reveal what Lisa and I discussed in therapy. Not that I'm going to tell
you
, either. Though even if I did, I can assure you it would have no bearing on the case. It was just personal material, relating to issues in her life.”

This time, Biegler rose halfway out of his chair. Clenched fists on the table bracing him up.

“And we're supposed to just take your
word
for that?”

“You don't have much choice.”

“Don't I?” His lean face darkened. “Goddamnit, Rinaldi! I don't give a shit about you and your confidentiality. Answer the man's question—
now!
—or I'll have a judge revoke privilege so fast your head'll spin!”

Now I was on my feet, too. Anger crowding my chest.

“You
do
that, Biegler! Call every judge in town. But I'm telling you, I don't know what the hell Sykes was talking about. The Four Horsemen could be a fucking
Vegas act
, for all I know!”

Gloria looked up at me. “Calm down, Danny…”

Easier said than done. Adrenaline was pulsing through me, as though my suppressed reaction to the long night's events had finally broken through. Flooding me. Until, by sheer effort of will, I forced myself to take a deep, cleansing breath.

Meanwhile, Agent Wilson was staring pointedly at Biegler. “That goes for you, too, Lieutenant.”

Still flushed, Biegler managed a curt nod. Then, before he could take his seat again, Agent Riggs pushed open the doors.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I think you should go up to your office. You and Lieutenant Biegler.”

“What is it?” Wilson asked.

“There's something you better see.”

***

Minutes later, we were all crowded into Anthony Wilson's spacious office, intently watching the flat-screen TV monitor on the wall. The KDKA morning news.

It was a live remote image, obviously taken from the station's chopper. At first, all I could make out through a veil of rising smoke was a blur of flashing lights, the outlines of a half-dozen vehicles. People scrambling, gesturing. And at the center of the chaotic scene a sprawling, gaping structure. Hunched, blasted. Flecked with angry, spitting flames.

Then I registered the graphic at the bottom of the screen: “Explosion and fire in the Hill District!”

As the chopper circled the fiercely burning building, a reporter's breathless voice provided the details:

“According to first responders on-scene, an explosion just twenty minutes ago ripped apart this abandoned printing factory in the Hill. Eyewitnesses nearby said they saw and heard a giant fireball erupt from the building, which was instantly engulfed in flames. Obviously, the fire is still out of control, so all police can do at the moment is keep onlookers away from the danger area, as firefighters begin battling the blaze.”

The reporter went on to say that the Fire Department captain at the scene had no information as to whether the building had been occupied, and that no search for survivors could begin until the fire was extinguished.

At which point, Lieutenant Biegler slumped against a file cabinet, arms crossed.

“Shit, they're not gonna find anyone. Sykes probably came back to the place, saw that Rinaldi and Reese were gone, and figured he'd better cut his losses. Torched the place.”

Wilson considered this. “The eyewitnesses said there was an explosion. According to our intel, Sykes and Griffin are ex-military. They could've used C-4. A lot more bang for your buck than using some fire accelerant. And quicker.”

Gloria turned to her boss. “Which also means we probably won't find much useable forensics in the ashes.”

“Instant demolition.” Wilson used the remote to lower the TV audio. “Incinerating those cameras you saw, whatever evidence there might've been—”

“You mean, like info about his VIP clients? Maybe even the videos of them having sex. Probably on discs, or a flash-drive. Sykes mentioned keeping copies, for his own protection. His insurance against exposure.”

“Though I don't think he'd keep them there,” I said. “Sykes strikes me as having enough smarts to stash his ‘insurance policies' in a separate location. Just in case he had to get out of there in a hurry. In fact, he and Griffin might've pre-set the explosives months ago. This way, if they suspected the cops were coming, all they'd have to do is pull the trigger.”