Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) (18 page)

"How can you be sure about this?"

"I can't." I stepped away, turning to gaze out of the huge bedroom window. "It's not an exact science." I wasn't going to tell her what everyone in my place already knew, that the kidnappers would shoot first and ask questions later and that I was risking my life to bring back Manny, and despite all their considerable expertise, if I needed backup, it wouldn't arrive in sufficient time to save my life. I didn't say any of that. I was a cop with a job to do. "I can make it work, Ms. Thorne—I can be quite the actress."

Thorne came to the window and looked out with me. Frost had formed on the outer glass. "Oh I don't think you're any bit an actress, but I wouldn't trust this job to anyone else." I could see that her throat was tightening. "I know you're risking your life, Detective, and I thank you."

We both needed a hug. We did and then Thorne pulled herself together once more. She returned to her massive closet and continued to select my wardrobe. I watched for a moment and then fresh thoughts flooded my mind.

At night they will think they have seen the sun,

When they see the half pig man:

Noise, screams, battles seen fought in the skies.

The brute beasts will be heard to speak.

It was the translation of the sixty-fourth quatrain, the one that had been delivered along with the ransom demand. It had been eating at me from the moment I had first seen it. At night they will think they have seen the sun. I had decided at the beginning of the case that I wasn't going to put any stock in Manny's prophecies. I knew that I had to pursue this case as I would any other, not allowing myself to be distracted by smoke and mirror prophecies that might or might not have to do with anything. Still, there was something about those words that left me cold. I couldn't honestly tell you what it was—not just then. Perhaps it was just that sixth sense cops develop and perhaps it was something more. I kept reminding myself that these were not Manny's words and that he was no more than a channel for a prophet that had died some four hundred years before. I also thought about the information I'd gotten from Twain...being that Nostradamus' prophecies were so vague, that they could seemingly apply to any number of circumstances.

Celia
Thorne was almost ready. She'd prepared everything she thought I'd need to step in and play her double. Now all I had to do was prepare myself for the test. The execution of the ransom drop would involve far more than an elaborate costume. I had to be prepared mentally and emotionally.

At night they will think they have seen the sun.

I tried to
focus
on the assignment but those damn words refused to stop running through my head. Now if only I could figure out why.

Carl sat in a stiff wooden chair in the center of The High Coptic's study. Save for the occasional hiss of steam escaping from the radiator, there had been no other sound for almost an hour.

The room was spartan, with stained oak floors and bookshelves that lined the walls, ceiling to floor, with hundreds of books on the teachings of the Gnostic faith. The books deadened sound. How painful it was for Carl to hear himself thinking.

Anticipation was eating him alive. How long, he wondered? How long would he wait before The High Coptic returned? He had been brought to the study the moment he'd arrived. He'd anticipated a deluge of questions and accusations, the unbridled anger of The High Coptic and the other clerics. Instead, there had been nothing but silence, maddening silence. They'd left him to stew, to dream up false excuses and lament over his fate. Their plan was working to a tee.

The door creaked. Carl jumped in his chair, but it was only the sound of the old house settling.

He had been betrayed and had decided to bare his soul. He would tell them of his relationship with Black and her lies. He would remind them of the carefully orchestrated abduction she had planned and how clever it had appeared, so clever in fact that The Faith had drained itself dry, gathering every ounce of their money to support the scheme. He would tell them that he had been deceived, that Black was nothing more than a thief, interested only in financial opportunity. Surely, he thought, The High Coptic would see that he had acted earnestly and in the best interest of The Faith. He had rehearsed his explanation over and over so that it would pour from his mouth despite his nervousness and fear.

Another hour passed.

Daylight disappeared outside the window. The room grew dark. He contemplated switching on the lamp, but was unable to pry himself from the chair.

Carl checked his watch—the dial was barely visible in the fading light. He'd be missed by now. Thorne and the authorities would wonder where he was and begin to contemplate his motives. The scriptures were filled with stories just like this one—he was destined to be the scapegoat, the villain mastermind that had abducted an autistic child. He felt the world collapsing in around him. He realized that he didn’t need to worry about
Celia
Thorne or the authorities. He knew that he was never going back and that a much crueler fate lay in store for him.

The room grew darker still until it was virtually black. Carl's eyes began to adjust to the darkness. A few rays from the street lamps filtered through the drawn blinds and the heavy drapery. Turn on the light. He thought about it over and over but could not will himself out of the chair.

His stomach began to growl. Another hour had passed. He felt foolish. He was an adult, a cleric in the order of The Faith and yet he was sitting like a punished child in a pitch black room. Turn on the light. Turn on the damn light. He tried to get up but he couldn't. Fear sat upon him like an anvil, pinning him in place.

He knew that The High Coptic and clerics would be sitting at the dinner table by now. The Faith did not eat extravagantly, but the cleric's bellies were always full—and his was not.

A bathroom was just down the hall. He could picture it just on the other side of the wall. He could void and return before he was missed. The High Coptic did not rush through dinner and wouldn't be finished for quite some time. He squeezed his legs together. His nerves had contributed to the problem. He thought he would burst.

The night was fleeting. He was now more concerned with his immediate needs than the excuses he would offer his religious brethren. The pain had almost forced him out of the chair when the door creaked again. The sound was identical to the one he had heard before, but then the knob turned. The door opened and The High Coptic's shadow filled the threshold. The light from the hallway backlit The High Coptic. It blinded Carl, making The High Coptic's face invisible.

The High Coptic stood at the threshold, staring into the dark, silent room. Carl was still there. He could see his outline and could hear the nervousness of his irregular breathing. He and the other clerics had discussed their predicament over the course of a lengthy dinner and had voted to take matters into their own hands. Carl could not be trusted. He was weak. In the eyes of The Faith, weakness was far more dangerous than stupidity, the basest characteristic of man.

The High Coptic had influences outside the sanctuary: a group of dangerous men from Queens. They had come from his native home in Greece, instructed in the ways of the
Cosa
Nostra by the Italians themselves. They had been of service to him on a few special occasions at desperate times.

The High Coptic believed that the boy was still alive and if he was, there was still an opportunity to find him, bring him to the sanctuary, and wait for him to bless them with the missing prophecies, the ones the Gnostics had waited centuries for. The prophecies would set them free and once and for all restore spiritual balance to the world. The Gnostic faith deserved a place in the world, not in its shadows. The boy held the key to their success.

A few moments had passed. The High Coptic had come to his study to obtain a few precious pieces of information from Carl, shreds of evidence to assist in repairing the situation. He was struck by the man's implied guilt—sitting in a dark room without the courage to turn on a light. He pitied Carl and what he had become. He had spoken so strongly about the woman and her guarantee to deliver the boy. He had sold them on it and then lied to cover his disgrace.

The faint odor of urine wafted through The High Coptic's nostrils. Closing the door, he turned away. He had decided to let the brutes take over. In his eyes, Carl had jeopardized their chances for resurrecting The Faith and would be condemned to an eternity without salvation.

I felt like an
actor
—two hours in makeup and an outfit that could definitely be described as a costume. I wasn't used to wearing face makeup. The heavy base felt inhibiting on my skin, tugging and pulling with every twitch and gesture. I had to try to forget about it. I had to look and act the part, or I would fail. I had to play the role and forget about the costume—but the makeup was so damn itchy. I felt like a puppy, continually shaking its head the first time the collar got snapped around its neck. I wanted to scratch, pick—ah hell, I just wanted to wash it off but I didn't. Today I was
Celia
Thorne.

The makeup artist had matched Thorne's complexion and color perfectly. The hair was easy: basic black, pulled back in a bun. Thorne had insisted on handpicking the clothes. She was smaller than I was, hence flat shoes and a hip length coat to understate my height. I wore a minimizing bra for obvious reasons, although the Kevlar vest I wore beneath the Armani sweater set pretty much did the job. I stood in front of the mirror and decided that this was absolutely the very worst I had ever looked in designer fashion, hands down.

NYPD had offices on Penn Station's lower level. Walking by, all commuters saw of it was a steel door with a sticker that read Caution- Door Opens Out. A combination panel permitted access inside. I had arrived hours earlier as Stephanie Chalice and would soon emerge as...well, you know.

Ambler's men had processed the ransom money. Thorne's dough had been chemically treated in a way that could only be detected by specialized equipment when the money was recovered or had reentered the economy. Tracking devices had been sewn into the lining of the Louis Vuitton bag, although we all knew the kidnappers would suspect as much and dump old Louis in the first handy trash bin. In addition a Q-logger, a tracking device roughly the size and thickness of a half dollar, had been cut into one of the banded stacks of cash. Needle in a haystack theory—there were one hundred stacks of fifty thousand dollars, tough to find, especially when you're running from the police and FBI.

The big issue for me was the gun. It wasn't easy to conceal a gun like my LDA. For that matter, it was tough to conceal any gun. If I got patted down, they would find it. A holster had been sewn onto the coat's lining and covered with a false pocket. If they wanted to check me, I would open the coat and allow them to run their hands under my arms and in all the obvious places one might holster a weapon. I could only hope they wouldn't think to check the coat separately. It didn't really matter. There was no way I was going in unarmed.

I was wired emotionally and electronically—Q-loggers similar to the one that had been used on the money had been cut into the heels of my shoes. There was one concealed in my hairpin, one in the waistband of my slacks, still one more in my coat's lining. My brooch was a transponder. Lido and Ambler would be able to hear everything I heard.

The redundant tracking devices were a comfort, but I was still going in alone. All we knew was that I was to board the Long Island Railroad and take it to the Syosset station and from there...who knows. That was only the first part. There was no question that the kidnapers would run me ragged until they were sure I was alone. Support would be close by, but not close enough to risk being seen. How long would it take for help to respond if I needed it? No more than minutes, minutes that might very well add up to an eternity. I'm not bellyaching about any of this, mind you, this is the job and I accept it without conditions. No one had held a gun to my head. I volunteered for the assignment.

I was practicing drawing the LDA from the holster sewn into the coat. Access was good but it wasn't the cross-draw shoulder rig I was used to. It was quick but not quick enough. If the kidnappers wanted to take me out, they'd be able to way before I ever got the LDA in my hand.

Lido walked over and pinched my butt. I didn't waste time looking around, I knew we were alone—Lido was not the type to take chances with our careers. "Careful," I said, "you'll wrinkle my corset."

He
peaked his eyebrows, playfully suggesting that it turned him on. "You're pretty hot for a senior citizen—how 'bout a kiss, granny?"

He puckered up. Of course I wanted to kiss him but couldn't. It felt so good to have him back, happy, intentionally teasing me to distract me from the severity of the assignment. "Forget it. One wrong move and I'll have to spend the rest of the afternoon in makeup—go peddle your geriatric charm at a nursing home, Casanova." He snickered. "What time is it?"

"Just past noon...getting nervous?"

I nodded. There was no need for me to bullshit Lido. I'm sure the tension showed on my face despite the many layers of makeup.

"Don't worry. I won't be far away."

I rubbed his cheek. "Thanks."

"Ambler wants to check out your equipment."

What, him too? "You men are all alike."

"Don't be cute. He wants to make sure you're transmitting, check your batteries—you know."

"Yeah okay, let's go." I gave myself one last once over in the mirror—what could I say? I was in my sixties today and had to get used to it. We began walking out of the room. I stopped. There was something I wanted to say. "So I was thinking that maybe we'd take a long weekend when this one's over, just the two of us and an endless supply of pizza. Whatcha think?"

"Sounds like fun. Say, you gonna wear the corset?"

I gave him one of those really obvious winks. "Anything that turns you on, big fella."