“No.”
“Has either of you ever seen her before?”
Both Carson and Edgar answered in the negative. Edgar picked up one of the photographs. “My daughter hired a private investigator to take these?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. Who is she?”
Tickner again ignored his question. “The ransom note came to you, like last time?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I follow. How did you know that it wasn’t a hoax? How did you know that you were dealing with the real kidnappers?”
Carson took that one. “We did think it was a hoax,” he said. “At first, I mean.”
“So what changed your mind?”
“They sent hairs again.” Carson quickly explained about the tests and about Dr. Seidman’s request for additional tests.
“You gave him all the hairs, then?”
“We did, yes,” Carson said.
Edgar seemed lost in the photographs again. “This woman,” he spat. “Was Seidman involved with her?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Why else would my daughter want these pictures taken?”
A mobile phone rang. Tickner excused himself and put the receiver to his ear.
“Bingo,” O’Malley said.
“What?”
“We got a hit on Seidman’s E-ZPass. He crossed the George Washington Bridge five minutes ago.”
The robotic voice told me, “Walk down the path.”
There was still enough light to see the first few steps. I started down them. The darkness gathered around, closed in. I started to use my foot to feel my way, like a blind man swinging a cane. I didn’t like this. I didn’t like this at all. I wondered again about Rachel. Was she near here? I tried to follow the path. It curved to the left. I stumbled on the cobblestone.
“Okay,” the voice said. “Stop.”
I did so. I could see nothing in front of me. Behind me, the street was a faded glow. On my right was a steep incline. The air had that city-park smell to it, a swirling potpourri of fresh and stale. I listened for some sort of clue, but there was nothing other than the distant humming swish of traffic.
“Put down the money.”
“No,” I said. “I want to see my daughter.”
“Put down the money.”
“We had a deal. You show me my daughter, I show you the money.”
There was no reply. I could hear the blood roaring in my ears. The fear was crippling. No, I did not like this. I was too exposed. I checked the path behind me. I could still break into a run and scream like a psycho. This neighborhood was tighter than most in Manhattan. Someone might call the police or try to help.
“Dr. Seidman?”
“Yes?”
And then a flashlight hit my face. I blinked and raised a hand to block my eyes. I squinted, trying to see past it. Someone lowered the flashlight beam. My eyes quickly adjusted, but there was no need. The beam was cut off by a silhouette. There was no mistake. I could see immediately what was being highlighted.
There was a man. I may have even seen flannel, I’m not sure. As I said, it was in silhouette. I couldn’t really make out features or colors or design. So that part could have been my imagination. But not the rest. I saw the shapes and outlines clear enough to know.
Standing next to the man, gripping his leg just above the knee, was a small child.
Chapter 27
Lydia wished thatthere was more light. She would very much like to see the look on Dr. Seidman’s face right now. Her desire to see his expression had nothing to do with the cruelty that was about to come down. It was curiosity. It was deeper than the slow-to-see-the-car-accident aspect of human nature. Imagine. This man had had his child taken away. For a year and a half, he had been left to wonder about her fate, tossing through sleepless nights, conjuring up horrors best left in the dark abyss of our subconscious.
Now he had seen her.
It would be unnaturalnot to want to see the expression on his face.
Seconds ticked away. She wanted that. She wanted to stretch the tension, pull him beyond what a man could handle, soften him for the final blow.
Lydia took out her Sig-Sauer. She held it to her side. Peering out from behind the bush she judged the distance between her and Seidman at thirty, maybe forty feet. She put the voice changer and phone back to her mouth. She whispered into it. Whisper or scream, it made no difference. The voice changer made it all sound the same.
“Open the money bag.”
From her perch, she watched him move like a man in a trance. He did what she asked—now without question. This time, she was the one using the flashlight. She shone it at his face and then dropped the beam to the bag.
Money. She could see the stacks. She nodded to herself. They were good to go.
“Okay,” she said. “Leave the money on the ground. Walk slowly down the path. Tara will be waiting for you.”
She watched Dr. Seidman drop the bag. He was squinting at the spot where he believed his daughter would be waiting. His movements were stiff, but then again his vision had probably been affected by the lights in his eyes. That again would make it easier.
Lydia wanted a close shot. Two quick bullets to the head, in case he was wearing a flak jacket. She was a good shot. She could probably hit him in the head from here. But she wanted the sure thing. No mistakes. No chance to run.
Seidman moved toward her. He was twenty feet away. Then fifteen. When he was only ten feet away, Lydia raised the pistol and took aim.
If Marc took the subway, Rachel knew that it’d be near impossible to follow him without being spotted.
Rachel hurried toward the stairwell. When she got there, she looked down into the dark. Marc was gone. Damn. She scanned the surroundings. There was a sign for elevators leading down to the A train. On the right was a closed wrought-iron gate. Nothing else.
He had to be in an elevator heading down to the subway.
Now what?
She heard footsteps behind her. With her right hand, Rachel quickly wiped the greasepaint, hoping to make herself look at least semi-presentable. With her left hand, she slid the goggles behind her and out of sight.
Two men trotted down the stairs. One caught her eye and smiled. She wiped her face again and smiled back. The men jogged the rest of the way down the steps and turned toward the elevator bank.
Rachel quickly considered her options. Those two men could be her cover. She could follow them down, get into the same elevator, get off with them, maybe even engage them in conversation. Who’d suspect her then? Hopefully Marc’s subway car hadn’t left yet. If it had . . . well, no use in thinking negative.