The Missing Piece (38 page)

And then Gary had his plan C. And this plan C had everything to do with Mike.

Gary played pocket pool with the cell phones in his parka, mulling this new idea over because he wanted to be sure he considered all the consequences. He would leave, like Linda said. Only he wouldn't go just anywhere, and he wouldn't go alone. He and Linda would go to Mike's cabin in the Catskills. He had been there once, late that first summer after the heist. It was a shambles, but it was built at ground level, and he could get the battle chair through the front door. They could rough it till he thought of something better.

He grabbed his phone. The private ambulette service he used would charge him dearly for a trip upstate. But the driver would ask no questions. And, after all, money was no object. He didn't just have all the money from the fund-raiser; he also had the missing piece.

*   *   *

Speak of the devil and he appears, thought Linda. Pretend to miscarry and a miscarriage might visit you.

She lay on her side, having pushed herself down toward the footboard so that she could draw up her knees. The wave of cramping slowly ebbed. She could hear Gary talking. The words were unclear, but carried the cadence and rhythm of a phone call. Silence followed, and Linda slowly stretched out and eased onto her back.

The wheelchair whirred, and Gary rolled into the bedroom.

“You said I should leave,” said Gary.

Linda sat up. “That's right,” she said warily.

“Then here's the deal. I'm leaving, and you're coming with me.”

“Gary, I can't do that.”

“You're going to do that. This isn't a negotiation.”

“I won't do that.”

“You will do that. A car is on the way. We are leaving.”

Linda slid herself so she could hug her legs to her chest and press her forehead against her knees. Then she lifted her head and stared at Gary.

“I'll go with you on two conditions. First, you let me see that Bernadette's all right. Second, you let her go.”

“I'm not doing that,” said Gary.

“Then I'm not going with you,” said Linda. She lay back down and rolled onto her side.

“I give you my word that Bernadette is all right,” he said. “But I'm not going to let you see her. We will leave and when we get where we are going, we will call someone and let them know she is here.”

“Who?”

“Captain Kearney.”

“What about Foxx?”

“Kearney. That's the deal. And stop playing me.”

Linda sat up. “Okay, I'll go with you. Let me pack some things.”

“Linda.”

“I'm going with you to some unspecified place for some unspecified length of time, and I'm supposed to go with only the clothes on my back?”

“Fine,” said Gary.

He drove to Linda's walk-in closet. There were rows of dresses and skirts, racks of sweaters and slacks, pairs and pairs of shoes. Up above, on a shelf, were suitcases. He moved under the shelf and raised the battle chair's seat as high as it would go. His hand just caught the handle of the lowest suitcase. He pulled, and three tumbled down on him. He dragged the largest back into the bedroom and opened it on the bed.

“I didn't see anything but fancy stuff in there,” he said.

“That's because all the unfancy stuff is out here,” said Linda. “Uncuff me and I'll pack.”

“No, you tell me where.”

But before Linda could answer, Gary's cell phone rang.

“Are you fuckin' kidding me?” he said. “Okay, okay.”

He ended the call.

“They're on their way. Dammit.”

“Who's on their way?”

“The car,” said Gary. He unlocked the cuffs. “Okay. You pack. Fast.”

*   *   *

After Gary opened the cuffs, he backed the battle chair into the doorway in case Linda tried to run. There was no other way out, unless she wanted to try the bathroom window. Linda moved quickly, opening dresser drawers, lifting out piles of underwear, jeans, and sweaters. It was a promising start to plan C. Still, he locked one ring of the cuffs to the arm of the battle chair.

Ten minutes later, his cell rang.

“You're kidding. You're not kidding,” he said, and hung up. “Jeesh, all these years they make me wait. Now they're early and up my ass about it.”

Linda laughed, really laughed, and for a moment it seemed to him that they weren't at odds. She stuffed one last sweatshirt into the suitcase, pressed down the lid, and snapped the locks.

“Ready,” she said.

There was something almost sprightly in the way she said that one word, and he thought maybe something had happened in these last few minutes. Maybe he had scratched through the shell of the last few years to the feelings he believed she had for him underneath.

He backed the battle chair into the hallway, angling it to block the path to the stairs on the off-chance she might run. But she rolled the big, heavy suitcase out of the bedroom and swung open the door to the elevator.

They both looked at the tiny space.

“You'll need to back in first,” said Linda.

Gary shook the open ring of the handcuff.

“Oh please, Gary. You think I'm going to run and leave you here with Bernadette? Let's go if we're going to go. Get in there.”

Gary backed in, briefly tensing at the thought that Linda might run. But she rolled the suitcase right in after him and began to wedge it in beside the battle chair.

“Don't do that,” said Gary.

“Okay,” said Linda. She set it crossways in front of Gary. “Now there's no room for me. How about this?”

She lifted the suitcase and stood it on the arms of the battle chair, blocking Gary's view as the door closed and the elevator started down.

Then it stopped and went dark.

“What happened?” said Gary.

There was no answer.

*   *   *

The elevator had a control panel on each floor, and on the second floor it was in the linen closet. Linda, after jumping out of the car before the doors slid shut, hit every switch with the idea that one of them had to kill the power. She heard the motor cut and, one second later, Gary start to shout. She backed out of the closet and listened at the elevator door. Gary was stuck between floors, cursing like a madman.

“Have fun,” she said.

She sprinted to the stairs.

She searched the first floor from front to back. Foyer, foyer closet, front den, living room, another closet. No Bernadette anywhere. She reached the kitchen. The silver urn still stood on the counter. The back door chain was still in place. It was here or the basement.

*   *   *

Gary couldn't believe it. He couldn't fuckin' believe it. She had tricked him, played him, screwed him.

He threw the suitcase off his lap. It hit the wall and bounced back, so he threw it off again. Goddam shitty little elevator didn't even have an emergency light. It was fuckin' pitch black.

“Linda!” he yelled again. “Goddam you!”

Ridiculous, he realized, stupid. A waste of energy. He needed to get out of here somehow. He ran his hands across the elevator car door. It was a two-piece slider, which meant it had an edge where one piece slid over the other. He turned the battle chair sideways, jammed the footrests against the side wall, and twisted himself so he could hook all his fingers along that edge.

He began to pull.

*   *   *

“Bern, hey, Bern.”

Linda leaned over the kitchen counter, but Bernadette wasn't back there. Behind her, Gary had stopped cursing. Instead, she heard grunts and thuds coming from the elevator shaft.

She reached the back door and, though she doubted Bernadette was out there, looked through the window. The deck furniture was still in place, the screen from the bathroom window lay beside the love seat.

Beside the back door was the door to the pantry.

“Bern?” said Linda.

Then she opened the door.

*   *   *

Gary eased off to give his arm a rest. The sliders had moved a couple of inches, but he needed better leverage to open them all the way.

He knew he was close to the first floor. He could hear Linda at a distance, calling for Bernadette. Once Linda found her, his time would be up.

He spun the battle chair so that it faced in the opposite direction. He braced his arm along the first slider and locked his palm against the edge of the second. With his free hand, he pushed the joystick forward. The wheels bit, the motor groaned, and slowly the sliders began to give way.

*   *   *

Bernadette lay among cases of bottled water and piles of canned vegetables. Her ankles and wrists were bound with plastic garbage bag ties. A cloth napkin was stuffed in her mouth.

Linda pulled out the napkin. Bernadette gagged and then sucked air.

“Bastard,” she said. “Where is he?”

“In the elevator,” said Linda. “Stuck between floors.”

“How'd you manage that?”

“Never mind.”

“Well, what the hell's this all about?”

“Never mind that, either. We need to get the hell out of here.”

The ties were too thick to tear off. Linda went into the kitchen. She needed a scissors, but with the constant thumping coming from the elevator she was too jittery to remember where she kept them. She opened the silverware drawer and grabbed a steak knife instead.

Back in the pantry, she knelt in front of Bernadette. Louder banging sounded in the hallway.

“What's that?” Bernadette whispered sharply.

“Don't move,” said Linda, sawing the knife into the ties that bound Bernadette's ankles.

There was a second bang.

“Stand up and turn around.”

Bernadette got to her feet, and Linda started working on the ties that bound her wrists behind her back.

*   *   *

After opening the sliders another couple of inches, Gary was getting nowhere. The battle chair's motor strained, its tires spun on the floor of the car, the heel of his hand hurt like hell. He eased off the joystick, if only to dampen the pain, then began to goose it rhythmically. Back and forth, back and forth, like rocking a car out of a snowbank. The tires held their traction, and the sliders, ever so slightly, began to move.

Grunting, he kept up the pressure. He was going to break this door. He didn't mind the pain. In fact, he welcomed it, he reveled in it. It was much better than the three years of radio silence between his legs and his head.

It happened suddenly. The sliders gave way, and the battle chair lurched forward, crashing into the wall of the car. More light seeped in now. He could see Linda's suitcase upended against the back of the car, the open gashes where the battle chair's footrests cracked the faux wood paneling. The light was coming in from around the door to the first-floor hallway.

Almost there, he thought.

Leaning over the armrest, he pushed the door. It rattled on its hinges, but wouldn't open. Still, after wrestling with the sliders, forcing this door would be easy.

He spun the battle chair to face the door. He jammed the joystick forward, then immediately pulled it back. Two hits and the door cracked lengthwise. One more and it flew open. The front wheels of the battle chair fell off the floor of the car, but the rear wheels had enough torque to drag them back up.

Four feet below, Gary saw the parquet hardwood of the first-floor hallway. He heard whispers, anxious whispers. And then the whispers stopped.

Linda found Bernadette, which meant he had only a few seconds to stop them. Four feet. He couldn't just drive out of the elevator. The battle chair would tumble forward. Land on him. Probably kill him.

He quickly shrugged into his parka and detached the cushion from the backrest. He secured the gun inside the parka, held the cushion in front of his face and chest like a surfer on a boogie board. Then he leaned forward until gravity took over.

*   *   *

The doorbell rang as Linda sawed into the ties behind Bernadette's back.

“Who's that?” said Bernadette.

“Gary's driver.”

“What?”

“He was taking me away,” said Linda.

“Where?”

A tremendously loud thud resounded in the hallway.

“What was that?” said Bernadette.

“Don't know,” said Linda. She cut through the tie. “Let's go.”

They ran out of the pantry and crossed behind the end of the granite counter to where they could see down the hallway to the front door.

“Damn,” muttered Linda.

“Shit,” breathed Bernadette.

Gary lay facedown on the floor, literally filling the width of the hallway. He shook his head, pressed his hands against the floor, and lifted his head and shoulders.

“Back door,” Linda whispered.

They did a quick about-face and attacked the locks with all four hands until they heard a loud bang and the wood above their heads splintered.

*   *   *

Foxx gave up on the phone calls. Last he tried, both cells kicked immediately into voicemail. That didn't bode well. He got off the subway train at the Broadway and Seventy-second Street station, ran up Broadway to Linda's street, then turned east. The street had solid lines of parked cars on both sides. Up ahead, way up ahead, at what looked to be approximately in front of Linda's house, a van was double-parked. Foxx ran right down the middle of the street. As he got closer, he saw that the van wasn't approximately in front of Linda's house; it was directly in front. The rear door on the passenger's side was open, and a wheelchair ramp angled down to the street.

Foxx shuffled between two parked cars and onto the sidewalk. A small man stood on Linda's stoop, pressing the doorbell.

Foxx took the steps in three long strides.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

“Picking up a client,” said the man. He spoke with a South Asian accent.

“Gary Martin?”