The Vanishing Point

51

By the time they joined the local FBI agents in the Corktown motel they were using as a centre of operations, Stephanie had lost count of how many hours she’d been awake. There had been a couple of times during the drive when she’d felt herself drifting away into surreal dreams, but every time she’d jerked awake before proper sleep took hold. It was as if her brain couldn’t allow her to switch off, not while the possibility of finding Jimmy was so alive. But her body knew how tired she was. Her left leg ached with a low intensity that made her grit her teeth.

Vivian McKuras had been on and off the phone all journey. Stephanie had strained to hear her end of the conversations, but Vivian had been huddled round her phone and there was too much road noise from the SUV for her to be able to make out more than the occasional word.

The road signs showed names she recognised without really knowing why. Kalamazoo, Lansing, Ann Arbor. Soon after they’d passed Ann Arbor, Vivian leaned over to talk to her. Even in the dimness of the dashboard light, Stephanie could see she was looking pleased. ‘I’ve got some very promising information from the team on the ground,’ she said.

‘Have they found Jimmy?’ Stephanie felt shaky and gripped the seat in front of her.

‘They’ve located the address Pete Matthews is renting. It’s a row house—’

‘What’s a row house?’

‘It’s where the house is joined to the ones on either side. I thought you had them all over the UK?’

‘We do, but we call them terraced houses. Not row houses.’

Vivian nodded. ‘It’s that old chestnut about being separated by a common language. Sorry. OK. So Matthews is living in this row house. He wasn’t in work today. The band he’s recording is taking a day off. We spoke to neighbours and engaged their cooperation. Thanks to thermal imaging and highly sensitive microphones, we’ve established that there are two people in the house. One on the first floor and the other in the attic room. Now, I don’t want to get your hopes up too high but one of the neighbours reported that she thought she heard a child crying earlier this evening. Around eight o’clock.’

Stephanie cried out. ‘Jimmy.’

‘We’ve no way of knowing for sure if it’s Jimmy. But the neighbour says this is the first time they’ve heard a child in the house. It’s . . . I’d have to say it’s a helluva coincidence.’

‘Why would there be a child there if it’s not Jimmy? He had plenty of time to get back here by eight, right?’ Stephanie was almost shouting in her excitement.

‘He would have had time, yes. But I have to caution you, Stephanie. We have no way of knowing whether this child is Jimmy till we enter the house and retrieve him. And now I have to ask you a very important question. Do you know whether Pete Matthews is likely to have access to weapons?’

Stephanie felt the shock of the question as a physical tightening of her chest. ‘Why would you think that? He’s never shown any interest in guns or knives or anything like that. He doesn’t even like action movies.’

‘We have to ask. We’ll be sending a team into that house and we need to be prepared for all eventualities. Are you sure he doesn’t carry a weapon when he’s travelling? Remember, this is a country where guns are not difficult to come by if you don’t mind flouting the law.’

Stephanie shook her head vigorously. ‘No way. It would never cross his mind. I don’t know how to make you understand this, but although he threatened me and really fright ened me, he’s not the kind of man who responds violently. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s never picked a fight in a pub, or got into a brawl or anything. He despises violent men. He’s a bully, not a fighter.’

Vivian patted her arm. ‘That’s good to know, and I can pass that on to our people.’

‘What’s going to happen now?’

‘We’ve got people staking out the house. We’re going to meet with the leader of the team who will be mounting the rescue so he can reassure you as to Jimmy’s safety. Then it’s a waiting game, I’m afraid. Don will stay with you and I will go with the team. It’s going to be OK, Stephanie.’ That was hard to believe, but Stephanie clung to the words.

The motel was quiet. The night porter seemed bored, as if major FBI operations happened on his shift every other night. He directed them to a small meeting room down the hall, where two men were waiting. Stephanie felt like she’d fallen down a rabbit hole and landed in the Die Hard franchise. Both men were tall and broad, dressed in black fatigues and body armour and utility belts that would have put Batman to shame. Both had square jaws and steady eyes. The only thing that distinguished them was the top half of their heads. One had an auburn buzz cut, the other a scalp so closely shaved it was impossible to estimate his hair colour. Two helmets lay discarded on the conference table. The introductions passed Stephanie in a blur. All she cared about now was getting Jimmy back. She could almost feel him in her arms.

The agents began to discuss the operation, but she wasn’t following the conversation. After a few minutes, she interrupted. ‘Can I come to the house? I promise I won’t get in the way. But I want Jimmy to feel safe as soon as possible. I should be there when you bring him out.’

‘That’s out of the question, ma’am,’ Auburn said.

She had a sudden inspiration. ‘You’ll need me if you get into a hostage situation,’ she said craftily. ‘It would save time to have me there.’

Vivian gave a wry smile. ‘She has a point. I say we take her.’

The men in black put their heads together. Neither looked happy but they finally agreed. Stephanie could remain in one of the command vehicles.

Feeling pleased with herself, she trailed in their wake back to the car park. They drove for less than half a mile and parked behind a large nondescript van. The two men in black peeled off and melted into the night while Vivian knocked on the van door. She showed her ID and they both climbed inside. Two men and a woman were hunched over a battery of screens and comms equipment, headsets jammed close. Vivian explained who Stephanie was and the woman grunted a welcome, gesturing towards a jump seat in the far corner with her thumb. ‘Sit down there. You’re here on sufferance, so don’t get in the way.’ Stephanie did as she was told. The screens told the sort of story that could be read by anyone who’d seen enough TV cop shows. The long view of a street of attractive brick-built terraced houses illuminated by street lighting. The front and back views of one house in particular. The multi-coloured thermal image of a house with two indistinct shapes inside. A screen that showed a constantly shifting series of scenes of men preparing their protection and weaponry, pulling on gas masks and goggles, all clearly streamed from a helmet cam. Presumably all the men were equipped with similar cameras.

The woman said, ‘Stand by,’ and the kaleidoscope of the assault team clarified itself into a view of the front stoop. Brusquely, she said, ‘Go, go, go.’

And then it was like a movie, only without the soundtrack. Front and back door smashed open, a flash-bang stun grenade rolled down the hall. The men poured in from front and back. Stephanie imagined the noise and the smoke and the smell and the shock of it all. Jimmy would be terrified. But so would Pete. And that thought did make her smile.

Their booted feet pounded up the stairs and into a bedroom. Through a haze of smoke, she saw Pete clutching the covers to his chest, scrambling back against the wall, his mouth opening and closing in silent yells. She watched spellbound as three of them dragged him naked from the bed and threw him to the floor, guns pointed at his head. They cuffed him and yanked him back to his feet.

The image changed and now they were climbing another flight of stairs. A bundle of bedclothes huddled in a corner of the room. One man stepped forward and lifted it bodily into his arms. All Stephanie could see was the top of a shaggy head of dark hair and a child’s arm reaching out to cling on to the FBI agent’s neck. But that was enough.

Before anyone could stop her, she had wrenched open the van door and was running down the street, oblivious to anything except the house she had seen on the screens. She ran, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mouth wide in a glorious smile. As she grew near, the officer carrying the child emerged from the doorway and descended to street level.

Stephanie hurled herself at the man, pulling the blankets back from the child’s head. Big brown eyes wide with fear and bewilderment gazed into hers. But instead of throwing her arms round him, Stephanie recoiled, her face a mask of horror.

Whoever the boy was, he wasn’t Jimmy.