The Pied Piper (71 page)

“There,” Flemming said, pointing out a white house to their right. “That's the 11:51 delivery. That house, right there. By 12:19 he's made—”

“She's made twelve miles,” Boldt answered, correcting the driver's gender.

“So
she
was going at a decent clip.”

“Highway 536,” Boldt reminded, naming the state highway. “It's probably posted at fifty-five.”

Flemming picked up the speed, and Boldt's heart rate right along with it. Sarah was somewhere within a few miles, he felt certain of it. His palms sweating, he took back the map, measured distances and checked street names.

Flemming glanced at his watch. “Somewhere past here, isn't it?”

“Yes. Within the next five miles.”

“On our left again,” the driver said.

“Correct.” Boldt checked the hostage, hoping to see some faint recognition in the woman's eyes, but she was either in shock or in complete control of herself. He saw nothing at all, a smug vacancy that made him fear they were nowhere near the safe house.

The miles ticked on. Not one of the houses had a decent size tree planted close enough to a central window to qualify. Again, the property lining the roadway was dead flat, not elevated as had clearly been the case in Sarah's video.

“I'm not liking this,” Flemming said.

“No,” Boldt agreed.

“I got a hunch your little theory stinks,” the driver said. He glanced into the rearview mirror. “I think we're wasting our time.” He added, “We've got all the answers we need right there. You may be too weak to stomach it, but I'm not. I've waited six months for this.”

“Drive it again,” Boldt said.

“What for? Those houses weren't even close.”

“Maybe another route,” Boldt said, vamping for time. “Maybe I got the route wrong. Turn around.”

Flemming hung a U-turn, but drove fast. “And make that kind of time? No. You picked the right route. That delivery truck had to be doing forty or fifty to make it to that next drop by twenty after twelve. It's your theory that's wrong. Fuck the FedEx truck—she's a
witness
, Goddamn it. An accomplice! We've got an accomplice in the backseat, and there is no way under heaven I won't get her to talk. She'll be telling me her life story if I want her to.”

“And any chance of conviction—”

“Oh, bullshit! Does Sarah care about conviction? Do you? Are you honestly going to go Boy Scout on me here? You gonna explain that to your wife, to Sarah? Forget about it. Nice try. No sell. You want this as badly as I do. Admit it. You don't give a shit about this scumbag in the backseat, about conviction. You want justice, same as me. Believe me, justice will be served.” He stopped the car. In the distance, in the moonlight, a barn shimmered in a dark field of cut-flower stems that without their blossoms reminded Boldt of long rows of thin soldiers.

“Looks good to me,” Flemming said. He rocked his head to look at Crowley. He looked half mad. “How 'bout to you?”

Flemming took the car keys as he climbed out, and Boldt lost any hope of stealing the car and the hostage while Flemming walked back to the trunk. The FedEx truck was not
theory
, he reminded himself, but evidence. It had appeared on that video clip and was, as such, irrefutable evidence. The video included a piece of a noontime CNN program, and the cable carrier had been identified as serving this community. With only four trucks delivering on the twenty-fifth, two of which were down for lunch break, Boldt had set his sights on locating the safe house and recovering Sarah. By dawn Seattle time Hale would be released—if he hadn't been already—and the Chevalier-Crowley connection exposed, and Sarah's ransom demands failed. He glanced at his watch, then at the trunk coming open, and finally back to the FedEx manifest, at which point it hit him.

He came out of the car in a hurry.

“I knew you'd come around,” Flemming said, collecting pieces of his traveling arsenal from the trunk, including a shotgun.

“The driver took his lunch hour,” Boldt said, offering the map.

Flemming slapped the open map away. “Eliminating two of the four trucks.”

“No,” Boldt contradicted, “that's where I had it wrong. Look at this manifest: The first drop
after
the lunch break is south of La Conner.” He paused. Flemming wasn't interested. He explained, “The driver took his lunch in La Conner, not Mount Vernon.” Flemming looked up from the trunk. Now it was indeed all theory, but Boldt was loathe to admit it. “He drove from Mount Vernon to La Conner right at lunchtime. We ruled him out when we shouldn't have: That fourth truck was on the road at the same time.”

“More theories. Enough theories. We're running out of time here, you know that. You pissed off Dunkin and he's going to fuck this up for all of us without knowing it. There's no more time.”

He jabbed the map, his index finger nearly poking a hole through it. “It's within this six-mile stretch. Has to be. How long for you to walk her out to that barn and get down to it? Why bother?”

He slammed the trunk, handed Boldt the car keys and said, “You don't get it, do you? It's no bother.” He wore an armored vest, neck to groin. He looked like a killer there in the moonlight, pockets bulging, the shotgun in his right hand. “Happy hunting,” he said. “First man to find Crowley and the kids wins.”

Boldt toyed with the keys between his fingers. “Think this through.”

“I have.” The low sonorous voice carried so much authority it was difficult for Boldt to argue.

“When I find it?” Boldt asked.

“
If
you find it, you know where to find me.” He looked out across the expanse of harvested flowers toward the distant barn. “I'm not a monster, Boldt,” he said, reading his thoughts. “I'm not after her.” He indicated the backseat. “I'm after my kid. But unlike you, I'm not afraid of how to get there.” He pushed past Boldt and opened the door to the backseat, took Lisa Crowley by the hair and dragged her from the car, standing her up.

Her injuries lent her a defeated look. Her empty eyes found Boldt and he warned Flemming, “You push her too hard in that condition and you'll kill her.”

“More's the pity,” Flemming said. He took Lisa Crowley by the arm and led her into the field. She offered no resistance, willing to sacrifice herself for her husband. Boldt stood there frozen by the sight of the two ghostly figures shrinking into the enormous field of black that gladly swallowed them.

A moment later, the Town Car sped away.

His imagination impossible to contain, Boldt spent the drive envisioning the activity in the barn, knowing full well that Flemming had every intention of following through with his threats, and that the man would enjoy it far more than he had been willing to admit perhaps even to himself. Flemming would kill her without meaning to. He would be left with a second murder—this one with a witness and too much evidence to overcome. How he would then choose to deal with Boldt remained uncertain to all concerned.

The enormous number of cars parked along the roads gave the night an eerie feeling, as if scores of people had deserted the area in a mass exodus. Boldt took a dirt road shortcut, saving himself five minutes and coming up to his suspect stretch of road from the backside. As he approached the paved intersection, another dark field of headless flowers enveloped the landscape to his left, several feet of which had not been harvested. He slowed and rolled down his window. Drooping dead daffodils, their heads slumped toward the pungent earth in silent prayer, kept vigil by the side of the road. It told Boldt that the entire forty-acre parcel had, quite recently, been a sea of daffodils in bloom. Yellow daffodils, he thought. Yellow, with yellow pollen. Knee height.

In the distance, a cluster of small sheds and the western slant of a metal farmhouse roof glowed a wet pale gray in the moonlight. The dead field rose slowly toward the outbuildings, and Boldt recognized immediately that the rise would elevate the farmhouse above the paved road.

Boldt steered the Town Car through a left turn and drove at a decent speed to avoid arousing suspicion. A large sycamore standing surprisingly close to the upcoming farmhouse spread its branches luxuriously over and down the small knoll toward the paved roadbed. Still a hundred yards off, Boldt knew intuitively that a large window would exist immediately behind that tree, that the living room walls inside would be painted a cream yellow. He knew the positioning of the furniture inside and the name of the man who had locked and now guarded its door, and that this same man ached to see a brown Taurus pull into the driveway and a woman climb from behind the wheel. He was to be disappointed that night, this man who stood sentry. The Taurus was never to come.

Boldt drove past, the dash lights dimmed, his eyes fixed on the road, not allowed to wander or stray toward the farmhouse to his left. He had seen all there was to see from the outside.

He needed inside now, and he needed Lisa Crowley in one piece.

Boldt ran through the moonswept field toward the distant barn, the cut stems of the headless flowers slapping at his pants legs, his shoes engorged with wet, sticky mud so that his legs weighed ten times their normal. The faster he tried to run, the heavier the mud, the slower he moved. He stopped and scraped the rich-smelling earth from his shoes, soiling his hands in the process.

As he came upon the barn, he listened into the stillness for her voice, hoping for any such sound at all. Greeted only by the silence, he sank into a pit of despair, confident that the only card they held was the life of Lisa Crowley, that her husband would cut any bargain to save his accomplice from torture and death. Flemming had jumped the gun.

Boldt checked the three doors he could find and finally knocked on the huge barn's wood door, gray from decades of weather. Flemming must have had a peephole, for he removed the wooden bar and opened the door without a word spoken. Boldt stepped inside and stopped cold.

A pale flashlight beam stretched from a tractor's tire across the barn's aisle to a large square post that helped support the hayloft above. Lisa Crowley's bare back and naked buttocks caught the light looking like a side of beef hung in a freezer. Her clothes were strewn in the dust and dirt of the aisle. Flemming had looped the cuffs over a rusty spike pounded into the cedar post well above head height, stretching her so that her toes just barely touched the dirt floor. Her head sideways, Boldt could see the left side of her face, smashed and swollen from the car accident. He walked toward her slowly. Flemming had removed the tape from her mouth and had stuffed her underwear there so she could make noise if she so chose, and he could evaluate her information by simply removing the underwear, restuffing her, if he went unsatisfied. The bright red blotches from the stun stick glowed violently red near her breasts and across her buttocks and the backs of her thighs. A dozen or more.