No Second Chance

Regan thought about it. “Okay, let’s assume I believe all that. They commit this crime. They get two million dollars and the kid. But then what? They bide their time for eighteen months? They decide they need more cash? What?”

“They need to wait to avoid suspicion. Maybe they wanted the wife’s estate to clear. Maybe they need another two million dollars to run away, I don’t know.”

Regan frowned. “We’re still trying to finesse away the same point.”

“What’s that?”

“If Seidman was behind this, how come he was nearly killed? This was no wound-me-so-it-looks-good injury. He was flatlined. The paramedics were sure they had a goner when they first got there. Hell, we quietly called it a double homicide for almost ten days.”

Tickner nodded. “It’s a problem.”

“And more than that, where the hell is he going right now? I mean, crossing the George Washington Bridge. Do you think he decided now was the time to flee with the two million dollars?”

“Could be.”

“If you were fleeing, would you use your E-ZPass to pay the toll?”

“No, but he might not know how easy it is to trace.”

“Hey, everyone knows how easy it is to trace. You get the bill in the mail. It tells you what time you hit what tollbooth. And even if he was dumb enough to forget that, your federal agent Rachel Whatshername isn’t.”

“Rachel Mills.” Tickner nodded slowly. “Good point, though.”

“Thank you.”

“So what conclusions can we draw?”

“That we still don’t have a clue what the hell is going on,” Regan said.

Tickner smiled. “Nice to be in familiar territory.”

The cell phone rang. Tickner picked it up. It was O’Malley. “Where are you?” O’Malley asked.

“A mile from the George Washington Bridge,” Tickner said.

“Hit the accelerator.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“NYPD just spotted Seidman’s car,” O’Malley said. “It’s parked at Fort Tryon Park—a mile, maybe mile and a half, from the bridge.”

“Know it,” Tickner said. “We’ll be there in less than five.”

Heshy had thought that it was all going a little too smoothly.

He’d watched Dr. Seidman leave his car. He waited. No one else had come out. He’d started down from the old fort’s tower.

That was when he spotted the woman.

He paused, watching her head down toward the subway elevators. Two guys were with her. Nothing suspicious in that. But then, when the woman sprinted back up alone, well, that was when things had changed.

He kept a close eye from then on. When she moved into the darkness, Heshy started creeping toward her.

Heshy knew that his appearance was intimidating. He also knew that much of the circuitry inside of his brain was not wired normally. He didn’t much care, which, he assumed, was part of the wiring problem. There were those who would tell you that Heshy was pure evil. He had killed sixteen people in his life, fourteen of them slowly. He had left six men alive who still wished that he hadn’t.

Supposedly, people like Heshy did not understand what they were doing. Other people’s pain did not reach them. That was not true. His victims’ pain was not something distant to him. He knew what pain was like. And he understood love. He loved Lydia. He loved her in ways most people could never fathom. He would kill for her. He would die for her. Many people say that about their loved ones, of course—but how many are willing to put it to the test?

The woman in the dark had binoculars strapped onto her head. Night-vision goggles. Heshy had seen them on the news. Soldiers in battle wore them. Having them did not necessarily mean she was a cop. Most weaponry and military gizmos were available online to anyone with the proper dollars. Heshy watched her. Either way, cop or no cop, if the goggles worked, this woman would be a witness to Lydia committing murder.

So she had to be silenced.

He closed in slowly. He wanted to hear if she was talking to anyone, if she had some kind of radio control to other units. But the woman was silent. Good. Maybe she was indeed on her own.

He was about two yards away from her when her body stiffened. The woman gave a little gasp. And Heshy knew that it was time to close her down.

He hurried over, moving with a grace that defied his bulk. He snaked one hand around her face and clasped it over her mouth. His hand was big enough to cover her nose too. Cut off the air supply. With his free hand, he cupped the back of her skull. He pushed his hands together.

And then, with both hands firmly placed on the woman’s head, Heshy lifted her all the way off the ground.

Chapter 28

A sound mademe stop. I turned to my right. I thought that maybe I heard something up there, near the street level. I tried to see, but my eyes were still suffering from the onslaught of the flashlight. The trees also helped cut off my view. I waited, seeing if I heard a follow-up. Nothing. The sound was gone now. It wasn’t important anyway. Tara should be waiting for me at the end of this path. Whatever else might go on, that was all that counted.

Focus, I thought again. Tara, end of the path. All else was extraneous.

I started up again, not even glancing behind me to check on the fate of the duffel bag with the two million dollars in it. It, too, was, like everything else but Tara, irrelevant. I tried to conjure up the shadowy image again, the silhouette made by the flashlight. I trudged on. My daughter. She could be right here, scant steps from where I now walked. I had been given a second chance to rescue her. Focus on that. Compartmentalize. Let nothing stop me.

I continued down the path.

While with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Rachel had been well trained in weapons and hand-to-hand combat. She had learned much during her four months at Quantico. She knew that true fighting was nothing like you saw on TV. You would never, for example, mess around with a high kick to the face. You would never try anything involving turning your back on an opponent, spinning, leaping—none of that.

Successful hand-to-hand combat could be broken down pretty simply. You aimed for the vulnerable spots on the body. The nose was good—it usually made your opponent’s eyes well up with tears. The eyes, of course. The throat was good too—anyone who has ever been struck there knew how it could shut down your will to fight. The groin, well, obvious. You always hear that. The groin, however, is a difficult target, probably because a man is prone to defend it. It’s usually better as a decoy move. Fake there and then go to one of the other more exposed, vulnerable spots.