They Disappeared

26

Manhattan, New York City

Jeff Griffin’s scalp was still prickling as he stared at the ceiling from his hospital bed at Bellevue.

He’d never lost consciousness.

He recalled the ambulance whoop-whooping as it blurred across town. The EMS tech in the jump seat had watched over him until they arrived at the hospital where a nurse and senior resident assessed him. That was some ninety minutes ago.

Now they were waiting for the attending physician to sign off.

Jeff lay there, his eyes fixed on nothing. The back of his head was numb. Adrenaline was still rippling through him; his ears were ringing and his face was pounding from the blood rush of his futile battle to rescue Sarah.

He was so close.

He’d touched her, held her and then he’d lost her again.

I’m so sorry.

God knows where Cole is or what they’ll do to Sarah now that I failed. I should’ve picked up that gun and shot them all. I should’ve waited for Cordelli and the cops to take over. I screwed up. I’m so goddamned sorry, Sarah. Oh, Jesus.

His eyes stung, his body shook, just as the door opened and the doctor, a balding man about Jeff’s age, came in with a nurse.

“Hello, Mr. Griffin,” the doctor said, picking up his digital chart while the nurse removed the ice pack from the back of Jeff’s head so the doctor could check the small laceration.

“The swelling is not too bad,” the doctor said. “It seems you don’t have a concussion and the X-rays indicate no broken bones. Let’s give you the once-over.”

The doctor leaned forward and shined a penlight in Jeff’s eyes. He had minty breath. The nurse took Jeff’s temperature and vitals. The doctor put on his stethoscope and listened to Jeff’s breathing. Then he assessed his neck, chest, abdomen and compressed Jeff’s pelvis.

“Aside from some scrapes and bruises, you’re in good shape. Your adrenaline was going full tilt. You were in ‘fight mode.’ You’re lucky-”

Lucky?

Jeff shot anger at the doctor, who was aware, because of police and news reports, that Jeff’s wife and son had been stolen by murderers.

The doctor adjusted his tone.

“Jeff, under the circumstances it could’ve been worse.”

“Did they find my wife and son?”

“We don’t know but two detectives have been waiting to talk to you.”

“Send them in.”

The nurse rolled the tray and IV stand aside and a moment later Cordelli and Brewer were standing at his bed.

“They tell us they’re going to discharge you,” Cordelli said.

“Did you find Sarah? It was a GMC Savana, 2010.”

“No,” Cordelli said. “We’re checking all surveillance cameras we can and our people in the car behind you may have gotten a few photos.”

“And that helps, how?”

“Jeff,” Cordelli said, “we asked you to hold off for us to set up.”

“You took a stupid risk,” Brewer said.

“I got closer to them than you guys! Christ!”

Jeff cupped his hands to his face, feeling the raw sting of cuts, scrapes and helplessness.

“Where does that leave us now?” Brewer said. “You should’ve let us handle it. This hero crap only works in the movies.”

“You think I was trying to be a hero, Brewer? That what you think?”

“Hey!” Cordelli tried to dial down the tension. “This won’t get us anywhere, let’s get to work.”

Cordelli set a digital recorder on the bed and opened his notebook.

“Tell us how many people were in the van, what they looked like, what they said, how they said it. Accents, tattoos, weapons, what you saw in the van. Everything.”

Jeff gave them details while they still burned in his mind.

“They said, ‘Very soon we will show the world what it is to suffer-to lose what you love.’”

Brewer and Cordelli exchanged glances at what they characterized as a terrorist threat.

“Did they elaborate, offer any details, like a target, address, location?” Cordelli asked.

Jeff shook his head.

Again and again Cordelli and Brewer went over every aspect of the incident with Jeff.

“We’ll have you talk to a sketch artist to get more, anything that can help,” Cordelli said.

Brewer pressed Jeff on “the small toy airplane.”

“On the call the plane was their priority-what is it?”

“It’s just a toy plane,” Jeff said, describing it.

“Did you give it to them?” Brewer asked.

“No, I hid it.”

“We need it.”

As soon as Jeff was discharged Brewer and Cordelli drove him to the coffee shop on Thirty-first Street. He went to the washroom and retrieved the bag with the toy plane, and empty box for the cell phone.

Brewer put the items in a larger bag and started making calls.

“This could be our key.”