Cure

39

March 27, 2010

Saturday, 11:49 p.m.

I think we can give ourselves a compliment,” Colt said to Grover. Colt was driving, and Grover was studying the MapQuest directions. “That little event was carried out extraordinarily well.”

The event he was referring to was their surprising the watcher and transferring him from his car to the back of a rented black Ford van. At the moment they’d burst into his SUV, which he’d failed to lock, the man, whom they later learned was Duane Mackenzie, had not been doing much watching, except for watching the ongoing neighborhood basketball game. As a consequence, Grover and Colt had been able to get their hands on the SUV’s front door handles and the doors open before Duane could react. By that time, he had two suppressed Smith & Wesson automatic pistols pressed against his neck while he was being relieved of his own weapon.

“Now, here’s what you are going to do,” Colt had said to the shocked and terrified Duane. “We’re going to get out of the SUV and walk directly across the street and climb into the back of that black Ford van without making any fuss. If you do, you are going to get blown away. Am I understood?”

“Who are you?” Duane tried to demand, but his voice quavered in terror.

“Shut up!” Colt had snapped. Then to Grover: “How clear does the neighborhood look?” He wasn’t about to take his eyes off Duane.

“It looks good,” Grover had said, avoiding using Colt’s name. “No pedestrians except two heading away, and no oncoming cars.”

Colt, who had been on the driver’s side, had yanked Duane out of the SUV and had marched him quickly down the street. Colt had lowered the gun temporarily to his side. Grover had caught up to the other two at the back of the van and had opened the back doors.

Once the doors were wide open, Colt had forced Duane inside in a smooth and practiced fashion. Inside the van was an open, domestic oriental rug, onto which Duane was forced to lie prone. Grover had climbed in as well, and as Colt kept the barrel of his gun pressed against Duane’s neck, Grover had bound the man’s arms with duct tape, gagged him with a small rag secured with duct tape, and then rolled him up in the rug. The whole episode, from entering Duane’s vehicle to his being bound inside the rug, had taken less than a minute, and the only person to have been a witness was Jack. Thanks to the discussion the previous evening, he had noticed the SUV and had been watching it continuously.

“Where should I turn east?” Colt asked, as he headed south on Central Park West.

“Either at Fifty-ninth or Fifty-seventh,” Grover responded. “Fiftyninth will be fine.”

They were on their way to Woodside, Queens, where they had rented a small two-story house. It was brick, with a garage entered from a back alleyway. The garage had been key. They wanted to avoid any curiosity when unloading their guest.

“Do you think he is adequately terrified?” Colt asked. Part of the technique was to scare the hell out of the victim to loosen his tongue.

“I think so,” Grover said. “I certainly would be.” He checked his watch. “I hope this doesn’t take too long. We’ve a lot to do today.”

They crossed over the Queensboro Bridge and onto Northern Boulevard, then onto 54th Street. The house they had rented was in the middle of the block. Colt turned into the alleyway. The garage door had an automatic opener, one of whose buttons Grover pressed as they approached. The garage door rattled upward, and Colt expertly pulled the van in and killed the engine.

“Let’s get our tools in first, get set up, and then come back for our guest.”

“Sounds good to me, but let’s not make this our life’s work,” Grover said.