Stealth Moves (25 page)

Chase held up his hands. “I’m not a hero,” he began with a quavering voice. “I’m just like everyone else. We all want to be heroes—”

“And you can be.” Chase whirled toward a man coming forward on stage, a man Holly recognized from his political ads. State Senator Kelly was a stocky, square-faced man with thick, chestnut hair. Like all successful politicians, he had an engaging smile. He used that smile on Chase and the audience.

“You may know me as Matt Kelly, Massachusetts state senator, but I’m here tonight as a father who loves his child. My daughter, Ariel, was taken fourteen days ago. I—” His voice broke. He cleared his throat. “Her mother and I want her back. We’re offering $1 million for information leading to her safe return. If you know something—if you know
anything
—call this number.”

Huge digits flashed across the Jumbotron. “It’s a special FBI hotline. Call,” Kelly pleaded. “Just call. If Kyle Blake is found with Ariel, his family will match the reward money. Two million for a tip—a simple tip—that will bring them back alive.”

The audience started chanting the rally slogan: “Be a Hero! Find them! Bring them back!”

The senator raised his hands for silence. He spoke into the microphone, his voice lower, more intimate. “And if you are the kidnapper, let them go in some safe, public place. Take the money, but give us our children.
Please
.”

Chase said, “Any of us can be a hero. Keep your eyes and ears open. Report any lead you find. Let’s bring our friends home!” The crowd roared its approval. Kelly gave a parting wave before he and Chase left the stage.

Tripl Thret manned their instruments, the singers moving toward center stage. The first chord of their hero song brought applause, but when the lead singers converged to share a microphone, a shattering screech blasted through the speakers. It started as reverb: sharp, grating, metallic echoes. And then it built, extended, grew louder, LOUDER until Holly felt a billion mosquitoes burrowing into her brain.

The musicians stopped playing to stare at their instruments, shake them, pull on cords. Techs ran onstage to inspect equipment. Nothing changed. The sound waves pumped through the giant concert speakers into the crowd.

Holly clamped hands over her ears and bent at the waist, hoping the row in front of her would blunt the sound. Her instinct to go fetal was impossible to resist, but even the sheltered position didn’t help. The bandstand’s dome caught the sound and amplified it to send it crashing down. Vibrations shook her eardrums, rattled her teeth and skull. She had to get away, had to escape, before she went mad from the screaming buzz.

Jumping to her feet, Holly found Mike’s knees blocking her exit. She wanted to shove them aside so she could run—up to the tree line, past it, into the ditches around the cemetery. All she could think about was getting far, far away.

But Liv was still in her seat. Holly couldn’t leave. Fighting her impulses, she turned to look at the girl’s contorted face, saw Liv’s fingers clawing at her headpiece. Seconds later, Liv’s face relaxed.

“What’s happening?” Catherine shrieked. Others shot from their seats, flocking toward the bandstand railing, peering out at the crowd now roiling like flood water. Shouts and cries below increased the unbearable racket.

Then the human tsunami broke, surging away from the stage toward the streets surrounding the park.

Holly’s stomach pitched. Dizzy, nauseated, she pushed through gawkers by the railing so she could heave outside the bandstand. Clinging to a pillar, her check against cold stone, she felt the pain in her left ear let up, just enough relief for her to breathe and stop the stomach spasms. With both hands over her right ear, she opened her eyes.

The motorcycle rider was driving away from the stage. Near the bandstand, threading through tormented spectators, he slowed for knots of people trying to avoid being trampled. Skirting them, the rider forged on toward the cemetery and Tremont Street.

But it was the wrong rider.
Not
her father’s jacket.
Not
his helmet. Wrong shape—longer back, narrower frame. Wrong boots—black-and-green camo boots.

“Brent…” Holly breathed, turning to collide with Mike.

“What?” Mike demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s stealing my father’s motorcycle!” Holly shouted. “That’s no cop on The Rocket. That’s Brent!”

The noise stopped. Holly felt sweet release though the ringing in her ears went on, an aftershock making her knees weak. She sank into Mike’s chair.

“I don’t understand what caused the panic,” Catherine said.

“Grandmother, the sound was awful!”

Mike said, “I heard buzzing. It was annoying but not awful.”

Holly roused herself. “We’re wasting time. I have to get someone to stop that rider. Maybe he’s stuck in traffic. If he makes it to an interstate, he’ll get away.”

“A motorcycle can’t disappear on the highway. Cops have helicopters. He’ll have to go to ground as fast as he can—get off the streets, hide.” Mike peered at Holly. “Why do you think it’s Brent?”

“He wears old Army boots. He’s shaped like the rider on the bike. He…” Holly faltered, trying to describe the puzzle pieces clicking together in her mind. “I followed him one day when he checked out Tay’s house and then Maddy’s.”

Mike twisted his lips. “Pretty thin. So far, you’ve got nothing.”

“The puppy! Teddy wouldn’t go near a garage behind Beacon. What’s the Tinsleys’ address?”

Mike told her, and Holly got excited. “That’d be in front of the garage. Mike, it all fits!” She stood. “If he’s run home to hide, my father’s bike will be in his garage. I’ll get a cop to come with me and take our bike back.”

“They have other business.” Mike pointed toward cops swarming the stage. “And look there.” He indicated the grounds, where other police were hovering over people injured during the panic.

“You don’t understand,” Holly seethed. “I
can’t
lose that bike. It’s like losing my dad all over again.” Tears welled in her furious eyes. “And there’s more. The Rocket was carrying…”

“Ransom,” Liv whispered.

Holly’s gaze shot to her left. They locked eyes. “
You
know about the ransom?”

“Of course,” Liv said. “And I know something else: If you mess around, ruin whatever plan the cops have, Ari could end up dead like Natalie. Maybe Kyle, too. Don’t you dare do something stupid!”

Holly pulled out her phone. “I’m calling Dan.”

Day 14—Friday night

Her call went to voicemail. She tried the hotline number and heard, “Calls will be answered in the order received. Your wait time is approximately….twenty…five…minutes.” Was everyone in Boston rushing to claim the reward? Standing with the Smallwoods at the base of the bandstand, Holly eyed a uniformed cop in the distance, wondering if she should talk to him.

Mike laid his hand on her arm. “Holly, stop. The wrong move could ruin a rescue plan. Even if there were different riders, both could be law enforcement. Maybe they got instructions during the concert to take the ransom to another place and needed a special agent.”

“Not with those boots. They’re the kind Brent wears. And he was here,” Holly insisted. “Liv saw him, too, only she calls him ‘Brandon’.” She turned to Liv. “Didn’t you say he seemed different?”

Liv looked up from texting. “Yeah. Something…” She frowned with concentration. “Um…I don’t think he had the beard. I’m not sure. So?”

“The man who assaulted your grandmother was tall and beardless,” Holly said.

“Oh, now this is getting preposterous,” Catherine scoffed. “Unless…” She looked at Mike. “Could Karina’s brother bear you a grudge because of the divorce?”

He shook his head. “Karina’s not pining for me. She’s got someone else on the hook.”

“Then there’s no reason a Tinsley would want anything from us,” Catherine concluded. “Their home is magnificent, filled with treasures. Holly, you need to get hold of yourself. I’m sorry if someone stole your family’s motorcycle—truly sorry, if that’s the case—but you can’t go around making wild accusations based on
boots
.”

“Why are we standing here arguing?” Liv griped. “Let’s go home. My friends are at Chase’s. I want to skype them from my computer because my phone screen’s so small.”

“I’m thinking about your friends—the
captive
ones!” Holly snapped. “Finding the bike could lead to them. If the rider wasn’t a cop, he’s the kidnapper or an accomplice. No one else knew about the ransom.”

“I did,” Liv countered, “and so did my friends.”

“Me, too.” Mike looked at Holly. “You told me after Dan told you. Not much of a secret, all in all.”

Holly opened her mouth, then shut it. Her suspicions wouldn’t sway anyone.

Mulling over events of the last two weeks preoccupied her during the walk to the Smallwood house. They climbed the front steps to find Jen Barnes at the door. “I’m staying the night,” she told Catherine. “With all the excitement, you’re bound to be restless. Can’t have you sleepwalking down the stairs.”

“But your husband—”

“Is out with the boys. He’s fine. How are you?”

“Weary,” Catherine admitted. She hung her jacket in the hall closet. “The medicine is barely controlling my symptoms. I hope I’ll make it through calls, checking on event insurance—there are bound to be lawsuits—and—”

“Do what you must, then it’s bed for you,” Jen said. Wrapping an arm around Catherine’s drooping shoulders, Jen guided her toward the staircase, stopping to tell the others, “Left the TV on downstairs. Lots of coverage of the concert. You should check it out.”

They did. The sound starting the panic was diminished on screen, so the scene made little sense. One minute Tripl Thret was playing; the next, spectators fled. Holly’s hopes of seeing The Rocket fell short: cameras focused on the stage. There were no close-ups of the motorcycle and rider. Commentators discussed why noise poured out of loudspeakers after the group stopped playing and why only young people were affected.

“Crazy,” Liv said, lifting Teddy from his pen. She cooed at the puppy and then took him outside.

“Want a beer?” Mike asked Holly. “I do.” He didn’t find any beer in the kitchen refrigerator, and so went to check the pantry. Holly heard him complain, “Who put junk on top of the drink fridge?” Holly shook her head, imagining his outraged, neat-freak face. When he returned, Mike had two bottles gripped between his fingers and a narrow cardboard box wedged under his good arm.

“Take this.” He nudged the box toward Holly. She took it from him, and he set the bottles on the coffee table. “Can’t leave stuff all over the place,” Mike grumbled. “Before you know it, there’s nothing but clutter.”

Holly recognized the old cardboard. “There’s a doll inside for Mrs. Tinsley.” She sat forward, clapping her hands. “Oh, this is perfect! Now we have an excuse to visit Brent’s house.”

“Wait a minute. Why is my mother giving Linda Tinsley a doll?”

“Catherine got it from her a long time ago, but it has bad mojo. She wants to return it.”

Mike pried up the lid with a finger. “Little guy doesn’t look so bad.”

“He was made to commemorate a child who died, one of a pair of twin boys who passed away,” Holly explained.

Mike let the lid fall. “Okay, so that’s creepy. Still don’t see why you’re fixated on Brent.”

“A hundred small things. We had a run-in on the T. He got rude, so I stomped his foot and noticed the boots. Later, I saw him studying Liv’s friends’ houses, and then he ordered gelato at the café in flavors the kidnapped kids like best. Another time, he took home food for an army when only two people live in his house. I tried to follow him, but Teddy wouldn’t go near his garage.”

“Linda Tinsley eats a lot. She’s massive.”

“Maybe the food was for her—or not. And then there’s the thing about him calling himself Brandon. ‘Brandon’ hangs around high school kids. He’s at the café, at a Parkour meet, at the pet shop. My God! He shared a cab with the girls!” Holly leaned back as the thought sank in.

“Brandon was his brother’s name.”

“Wow,” Holly said, curling her lip. “Now
that’s
creepy.”

“But it isn’t criminal. Nothing you’ve brought up so far connects Brent with crime.”

“The intruder you chased off was tall. He put up a camera to spy on the terrace, and then came back to rough up your mother. If Brent cut his hair and shaved, he’d fit the description.”

“You won’t let this go, will you?” Mike took a pull on his beer and stared mournfully at Holly. “All right. I suppose we can go see what Brent looks like, but I’m not using any doll as a lame-ass excuse. Some of Karina’s stuff got mixed in with mine when I left. She’s been nagging me to give it back. Brent will believe his sister isn’t good about waiting for anything she wants.”

“While you’re distracting him, I’ll find a way into the garage. If the bike’s there—”

“Whoa, whoa! A little cloak-and-dagger stuff is fine, but I won’t go along with breaking and entering—whatever the police might charge you with for ‘checking out’ the garage. Land yourself a criminal record, and you’ll never do police work. No motorcycle is worth your future.”

Holly held out her hands. “Don’t you see? If the bike’s there, the police will believe me. They’ll have to investigate, and maybe find those kidnapped kids. They’re running out of time, Mike. Kidnappers who get ransom don’t keep witnesses around. What kind of cop would I be if I let people die to save my future career?”

Mike pursed his lips. “I can’t believe Brent’s gone bad. Why crime? The family’s not poor.”

“I don’t know, and I really don’t care. I’m only interested in the captives. I couldn’t live with myself if I let someone else end up like Natalie. Have you forgotten her?”

“No.” Mike sighed heavily. He leaned on his hand, eying Holly, indecision turning to resolve on his face. “I suppose I’ll have to help you. The thing is…”

Holly suddenly understood. She didn’t have an important career to protect. Not yet. But Mike did. “You can’t be involved. I get it. If I’m caught, I’ll say I did everything on my own.”

“I, uh…” Mike faltered, looking embarrassed.

“Distracting Brent is enough. You don’t have to be a hero. Let’s go.”