Silent Thunder Part 5

I don't think so. A thirty-two revolver, if she still has it. My daughter Laurie: where is she?

A long studied silence before Corwin said, We hoped you might tell us. There's no ransom note.

Ramsay slumped against the wall, flooded with weakness and nausea. Oh G.o.d, oh Laurie ? And then he decided that he must be very careful talking to Corwin. He rubbed his hands, which had become icy, and stammered out a hope that Laurie could be somewhere safe.

I'd like to think so, Corwin sighed, and told Ramsay the worst. Moments after a neighbor heard a woman's screams from the condo, two men had been seen lugging a big plastic garbage can from the condo to a double-parked van. Unless Mrs. Ramsay owned any heavy art objects? That's a possibility.

Ramsay shook his head. Can you trace the van?

There was always hope, said Corwin. You could help if you have any idea why the girl might be taken. Beside the obvious ransom motive, of course.

For all I know, this guy is a direct pipeline to Laurie's captors, Ramsay thought.

Invigorated by anger at the idea, he looked into Corwin's eyes. In my business you make enemies, he conceded.

Including ex-wives who have custody?

Ramsay: You can go? sorry. Kathleen and I get along. Got along, he amended, and squeezed his eyes shut from the pain of it. I see Laurie often. Why the h.e.l.l would I kidnap my own kid?

It happens, Corwin said gently. Then you deny that you and the deceased had recently quarreled over custody?

d.a.m.n' right I deny it! Oh, sometimes we argued about this weekend or that, or where I took Laurie. My G.o.d, be reasonable, I'm not?

Homicide and kidnapping in broad daylight aren't reasonable crimes, usually, Corwin interrupted. I gave you a chance to tell me what happened here. You know, but you're not helping. What am I supposed to think, Mr. Ramsay?

Whispered: I don't know. Then more strongly: I just want my kid back. I'll say anything, or not say anything; whatever it takes to have my daughter safe, Ramsay pleaded.

Corwin rubbed his nose as he studied the distraught father standing before him. I don't think you set this up deliberately, but you knew you had big trouble before you got here.

What kind of trouble? Of course, Ramsay thought: the phone recorder! I'm, not sure. I've had some? threats, indirect threats, really, and during a telecast today I realized that someone could go after my family instead of coming directly to me.

But you didn't call nine-one-one and tell us, Corwin persisted.

I couldn't. I still can't. I left a message for Kathleen so I could? h.e.l.l, I don't know.

Protect them myself, I guess.

Corwin lifted one corner of his mouth without really smiling. A man wouldn't do brain surgery on his family, but he'll try to do a cop's job. Pause. Where did you expect to meet them?

A scrubby little McDonald's, a couple of miles from here. I figured they could hide in plain sight.

Corwin: You proposed to your wife at a greasetrap?

It was her best proof of my proletarian tastes, Ramsay said, and the two exchanged the wan smiles of men whose wives had never quite house-broken them to elegance.

From that point on, their interchanges became warmer. Corwin agreed that, at this point, publicity could not help Laurie. For that matter, the Metro Police could truthfully say they had no real proof the girl had been abducted. But Ramsay, said Corwin, was no pro at dealing with kidnappers. It was impossible to overstress the importance of getting in touch, and keeping records. The police would be contacting Ramsay again, sorry but police work had its rituals, one being that victims were encouraged to cooperate with the police; was that clear?

When Ramsay moved from the kitchen he saw that Kathleen's body had been removed so quietly, so professionally, he hadn't known when they did it. She belonged to them, now. So did he, if they chose. And Laurie: whose chattel had she become? He seemed to be moving in a very exclusive circle now, in which he alone was an amateur in matters of sudden death.

En route to his apartment, Ramsay began to think clearly again. Committing a murder, then taking Laurie from a Georgetown condominium during rush hour, was itself a message of power? and of restraint. It would've been simpler just to kill her. And they would kill without hesitation, had perhaps fired two bullets into Kathleen's head for no better reason than to prove it. They'd get in touch with Ramsay to make their demands, no doubt about that. And by this time, they might have taps on his phones at home as well as at the studios. So might the Metropolitan Police? and they might be working together. I'm bucking the White House, he thought. Christ, there was almost no limit how wide a net could be cast from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue!

But the operative word was 'almost.' Ramsay knew a little about electronic bugging, had researched it for telecasts, but thought it unlikely that the National Security Agency's automated monitors would identify him from random phone booths. It might depend on what he said.

He swung the Genie around Logan Circle, shot away and drove to Glenwood Cemetery where he watched for surveillance before doubling back. It seemed that he was not being followed, but perhaps they no longer considered it necessary. With Laurie as bait,they could reel Alan Ramsay in anytime they liked.

He parked at Gallaudet College and got a fistful of change from Student Services, but had to place the call from off-campus. He reached Matthew Alden's home recorder but this time, no friendly voice broke into Ramsay's spiel. Matt, I'm calling from a public booth. You recognized my voice before but I've got my thumb pressed against my larynx just in case voiceprinted are as good as I hear they are.

You also said to warn you, just in case. I'm afraid your old friend was onto something incredibly big, and powerful, and it has cost the lives of two people close to me. Maybe three. Maybe me, if they want to. I may be under a magnifying, gla.s.s, phone taps at home, the best that high-tech can offer. I don't know for sure and I don't want to risk leading anyone to you.

And my daughter is missing; probably kidnapped. If there is any way on G.o.d's earth you can contact your friend for me, do. Momentarily, he was near weeping. My eleven-year-old girl, Alden; they've killed her mother and I don't dare open up to the police, that's how big this is!

He took a shaky breath, then several quick ones, and added, Don't trust anyone on any government payroll, and don't take my word that you're safe. I could've slipped up, somehow. And please, please, if you can, tell your friend. I'll give you good odds he's under someone's death sentence, so maybe I could trust him. That's all. Watch your step and your family's. Ramsay was leaving the booth when he remembered he could call from any booth and query his own apartment's message recorder.

He found another booth, called his apartment, punched in the playback signal. Pam Garza had called, suggesting that she cook antojitos in his apartment to avoid restaurant food. Some Pentagon staffer of Magnuson's had called to say the general would be out of the area until Monday but would be available at two-thirty that day, if Mr. Ramsay cared to confirm.

And then another call; a harsh unis.e.x voice that had said only, This is once, Ramsay. Go home.

Finally the same voice calling again, and this time he? more likely, she? was more instructive: That's twice, mister. We know you can get these calls if you want to. We won't run all over h.e.l.l calling you from here and there. We'll just start sending you bits and pieces. Go home, Ramsay.

Ramsay made it outside the booth before he vomited, broke a dozen laws getting home, parked in front of his garage to save time, and stormed into his apartment as the telephone began to ring.

It was Pam. You know what antojitos are, mister? She was utterly unaware of his panic.

Little delicate morsels you nibble with your teeth. As it happens, I have some, she said, sensuously teasing.

Come on over, he said. I have to keep this line clear for an important call.

Pam was only half amused. Important? What am I, chopped liver?

All but shouting: Great, bring chopped liver! You're a very weird man, she said, vexed, and rang off.

The injection had taken effect fast, but Laurie awoke very slowly. Her joints hurt, and it was dark. Mom? A flat echo mocked her. She rolled off the bed? no, only a bedroll on a wooden floor? and padded barefoot toward the slits of light outlining a door. It opened with a suddenness that made her squint.

h.e.l.lo, Laurel, said the woman, in a voice that was barely a woman's. She was not tall but thickset, with short bangs and a square, wide jaw, and the hands that steered Laurie into the fluorescent-lit room were terribly strong. I'm Johnnie, the woman said, smiling, touching her breast as if sign language were required.

I hurt a lot. Where's my mom? Then, as recent memories pushed through the fuzziness: Those men were hurting my mother!

Your mother's all right, Laurel, said Johnnie. She said you must hide here with me for awhile. I'm a friend of hers, you see.

Laurie did not see much that encouraged her. The larger room sported only collapsible furniture and portable amenities: card table, two chairs, a large cot. A small portable TV and other equipment lay on the table; magazines mounded under the cot. Three small fruitwood logs burned in a gla.s.s-fronted fireplace for heat, most of the light coming from a battery-powered fluorescent lamp on the table. No light would get past the heavy drapes, which had been sealed against the walls with broad-headed roofing nails.

Opposite the small room where she had slept, Laurie could see through a doorway where a camp stove and canned goods lay strewn across a kitchen countertop.

Laurie studied the woman with the mannish clothes and the stout arms of a bus driver.

She wanted to use the telephone. She didn't understand why she was here, and she said so.

Johnnie explained in simple words, the words one might use to a simpleton or a six-year-old. Laurie thought Johnnie's smile might have been baked on until Johnnie claimed that Kathleen Ramsay was in trouble with the police, and Laurie hotly disputed that. Suddenly, in place of the smile, there was only the glittering flat gaze of a pit viper.

Don't call me a liar, Laurel, she said in that voice like something from a cartoon, yet not in the least laughable.

Fists on her hips, Laurie proved she was an only child: It's Laurie, not Laurel, and I don't know you. If Mom's in trouble, I wanta call my dad. You better get me a telephone or?

If the red flag was 'you better,' Johnnie was the bull. Wrenched off balance by the woman's thick fingers in her hair, Laurie found herself dragged to a chair. Johnnie pinioned her arms with ease and thrashed her ample bottom. You? will? behave, Johnnie punctuated some of those heavy slaps. The louder Laurie screamed, the heavier the slaps became until Laurie collapsed, sobbing, bent over Johnnie's lap.

Then Johnnie quit paddling and began kneading, stroking the bruised b.u.t.tocks, speaking more softly. n.o.body can hear us out here, Laurel. If you behave, I can make you feel good. Real good. Stop that, she lashed a single slap again at Laurie's renewed struggle.

You're Johnnie's girl now, and you do as I tell you. A half-hour later, Johnnie taped the girl's mouth, wrists and ankles securely and locked her in the dark room. Soon after, Laurie heard the sounds of a door closing; a lock snapping. But long before that, while lying across the woman's lap, Laurie had begun to understand and to loathe exactly what it meant to be Johnnie's girl...

Ramsay's phone did not ring again until he had greeted Pam and apologized. At first he would only tell her that Laurie had been taken by persons unknown. He said nothing of Kathleen's death, but Pam's lovely dark features remained frozen in horror for many long seconds as she stared, shaking her head. No, oh no, they couldn't, she moaned.

Shaking, she buried her face against his chest.

Touched at her reaction, he said, We just have to wait and hope. They did not have to wait long.

He answered on the first ring. You're smart enough to follow orders, said the not-quite-male voice that was now familiar. Let's see if you're smart enough to keep the girl alive.

Whatever it takes, Ramsay admitted. I'll trade myself for her if that's?

Shut up and quit trying to keep me on the line. Go right now and check the battery in that yellow sportscar of yours.

The battery? But? But he was talking to a dead line. He put the phone down with great care, fighting for self-control, and did not quite hear Pam's question. In any case, she had stammered. He asked her to repeat it.

I asked you what he said.

A two-beat pause while their gazes locked. Yes, it was natural to a.s.sume the caller was male. And it was almost a 'he' voice. But hadn't Pam almost asked 'what did she say'?

Doubt, as heavy and cold as a fragment of a dead star, came to rest in Ramsay's chest as he turned away from Pam Garza. He said to check my car battery. Do you suppose they're watching to see if I'll follow orders?

Pam grabbed her cardigan sweater, tossed his jacket to him, and crossed to the door expectantly. He took the jacket and followed her downstairs, watching the nape of her neck instead of the fine lilt of her racehorse legs. He wondered why Pam Garza had come into his life at this precise juncture; whether she had done it under orders; and then he wondered how he could touch her in pleasure while holding this suspicion.

He let her stand beside him in the driveway while he pulled the inner hood release. She seemed ready to lift the hood herself until he warned her to move far away. If this was a b.o.o.by trap, at least Pam was unaware of it, he thought. But instead, someone had placed a plastic bag atop his battery. She probably knew it was safe, he reflected, holding the clear bag up to study it in the glow of a distant streetlamp, unable to identify its contents.

Hurrying back to his apartment, he said, They put this here during the past half-hour.

G.o.d, but they're c.o.c.ksure, Pam said.

He swung the front door shut, ripped off his jacket, folded his arms. What's yourconclusion from that? He half expected her to say, in awed tones, that his enemies were so all-powerful that he must obey their every whim. In that case he probably would have struck her.

But Pam was emptying the plastic bag herself and did not seem to have heard him. Oh, she said softly in dismay, handing him the long curl of blonde hair that was Laurie's color but might, after all, have been anyone's. The keyring, however, was more conclusive: its charm was in the tiny spherical magnetic compa.s.s. Ramsay had given it to Laurie when she'd gone away to camp the year before. Pam held it up and looked her question silently.

He nodded. Hers, he said, and took the note as Pam extracted it. Until this moment, I never realized I could kill in cold blood. Well, I could. Right now.

From all appearances, Pam did not see the threat as directed at her. So could I, Alan.

She pointed a tapering manicured finger at the folded note as if the paper were a black widow spider. Tell me if I should see that. Her finger, he noted, was shaking; the skin around her mouth and nostrils was unnaturally pale. She's not acting, he realized with a flood of relief and affection. Whatever she is, Pamela Garza is no kidnapper.

The note had evidently been printed out on a common pocket memocomp. He read it, paused, then handed it to Pam. Once, while scanning it, she made a noise that was half moan, and the other half was growl. The note read:

WITHOUT YOUR IDLE RUMORS, WINTOON AND THE WOMAN WOULD BE ALIVE. THE.

GIRL WILL STAY HEALTHY EXACTLY AS LONG AS YOU STAY SILENT. WE COULD.

SEND OTHER SNIPPETS INSTEAD OF HAIR, AND WE WILL, IF YOU CONFIDE IN.

POLICE. SOME NIGHTS THE GIRL WILL CALL YOU AT HOME. KEEP YOUR SILENCE.

AND NORMAL ROUTINES FOR A MONTH AND WE WILL RETURN HER SAFELY.

MAN PROPOSES, G.o.d DISPOSES.

THINK OF US AS G.o.d.

Handing Ramsay the note, Pam rubbed gooseflesh from her forearms. Devils would be more like it. Alan, did they? is Laurie's mother? ?

Yes. With a handgun. While they were stuffing Laurie into a G.o.dd.a.m.n garbage can during rush hour today, if you can believe that.

He watched as she traced circles on his carpet with a shoetip, her arms folded so she could grip her elbows. Simply to be doing something, Ramsay went to his kitchen andinventoried the stuff Pam had brought: among other things, soft avocadoes, brown sugar, and lamb chops. She was standing beside him before he finished, and he failed in his effort to smile. They embraced quietly in s.e.xless mutual need. Finally: If you need to be alone, I can go, she whispered.

He denied it; dared her to create New Mexico antojitos that might make him momentarily forget; and watched her small taloned fingers prepare a feast as they talked. The talons paused as he admitted, For all I knew, you could have been one of them.

She'd thought of that, she said. I can't blame you; you really haven't known me that long. Just tell me how I can help, Alan, and grade me on how well I do it. But I don't think I want to know those rumors, if they're this deadly.

She took chances, he replied, just being with him. No, I won't saddle you with what I know. Why don't they just zap me and be done with it?

She set the microwave oven dial and shrugged as she faced him. I don't know, but I think we might be safe as long as you don't tell everything on national television. I suspect they're just a little afraid of what might happen if they tried to kill someone in your line of work, and got caught at it. I mean, you're a frequent houseguest to fifty million people, Alan. My big boss likes to say the media is an outlaw horse, you can't tame it, but if you tickle its cojones it might give you a good ride. Well, that's what he says, she ended, her cheeks the color of a ripe peach. Actually, he claims it was a quote from Showers.

Evan Showers? His glance was keen. Showers, the President's press secretary, did his job well if unconventionally; just the sort of man needed to run media interference for a President whose public performances were reminiscent of an evangelist.

Pam nodded. My boss's boss, if the truth be known? and that's just between you and me, she added quickly.

I thought you worked for Elite Research, he began, and then smiled as she nodded. Ah; then Showers is one of Elite's clients. The practice of government's hiring independent research groups was not widely known, but increasingly common. Short-term jobs, or ongoing?

Ongoing, she said. Elite does a lot of what we call un.o.btrusive measures. You know, computer a.n.a.lysis of talk show jokes, that sort of thing. Subtle measures of how well the administration is doing.