raised him to be prey. With Holly in the hands of murderers, however, Mitch had nowhere to run. He would rather die than hide and leave her to their mercy.
The Velcro closure on the holster allowed him to strap it far enough above his ankle to avoid exposing it if his pants hiked when he sat down. He didn’t favor peg-legged jeans, and this pair accommodated the compact handgun.
He shrugged into the sports coat. Before he got out of the car, he would tuck the pistol under his belt, in the small of his back, where the coat would conceal it.
He examined that weapon. Again he failed to locate a safety.
With some fumbling, he ejected the magazine. It contained eight cartridges. When he pulled the slide back, he saw a ninth gleaming in the breach.
After reinserting the magazine and making sure that it clicked securely into place, he put the pistol on the passenger’s seat.
His cell phone rang. The car clock read 5:59.
The kidnapper said, “Did you enjoy your visit with Mom and Dad?”
He had not been followed to his parents’ house or away from it, and yet they knew where he had been.
He said at once, “I didn’t tell them anything.”
“What were you after—milk and cookies?”
“If you’re thinking I could get the money from them, you’re wrong. They’re not that rich.”
“We know, Mitch. We know.”
“Let me talk to Holly.”
“Not this time.”
“Let me talk to her,” he insisted.
“Relax. She’s doing fine. I’ll put her on the next call. Is that the church you and your parents attended?”
His was the only car in the parking lot, and none were passing at the moment. Across the street from the church, the only vehicles were those in driveways, none at the curb.
“Is that where you went to church?” the kidnapper asked again.
“No.”
Although he was closed in the car with the doors locked, he felt as exposed as a mouse in an open field with the vibrato of hawk wings suddenly above.
“Were you an altar boy, Mitch?”
“No.”
“Can that be true?”
“You seem to know everything. You know it’s true.”
“For a man who was never an altar boy, Mitch, you are so
like
an altar boy.”
When he didn’t at first respond, thinking the statement a non sequitur, and when the kidnapper waited in silence, Mitch at last said, “I don’t know what that means.”
“Well, I don’t mean you’re pious, that’s for sure. And I don’t mean you’re reliably truthful. With Detective Taggart, you’ve proved to be a cunning liar.”
In their two previous conversations, the man on the phone had been professional, chillingly so. This petty jeering seemed out of sync with his past performance.
He had, however, called himself a
handler
. He had bluntly said that Mitch was an instrument to be manipulated, finessed.
These taunts must have a purpose, though it eluded Mitch. The kidnapper wanted to get inside his head and mess with him, for some subtle purpose, to achieve a particular result.
“Mitch, no offense, because it’s actually kind of sweet—but you’re as
naive
as an altar boy.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. I say so.”
This might be an attempt to anger him, anger being an inhibition to clear thinking, or perhaps the purpose was to instill in him such doubt about his competence that he would remain cowed and obedient.
He had already acknowledged to himself the absolute degree of his helplessness in this matter. They could not strop his humility to a sharper edge than now existed.
“Your eyes are wide open, Mitch, but you don’t see.”
This statement unnerved him more than anything else that the kidnapper had said. Not an hour ago, in the loft of his garage, that very thought, couched in similar words, had occurred to him.
Having packed John Knox in the trunk of the car, he had returned to the loft to puzzle out how the accident had occurred. Having seen the neck of the lug wrench snared in the loop of the knot, he had settled the mystery.
But just then he had
The Velcro closure on the holster allowed him to strap it far enough above his ankle to avoid exposing it if his pants hiked when he sat down. He didn’t favor peg-legged jeans, and this pair accommodated the compact handgun.
He shrugged into the sports coat. Before he got out of the car, he would tuck the pistol under his belt, in the small of his back, where the coat would conceal it.
He examined that weapon. Again he failed to locate a safety.
With some fumbling, he ejected the magazine. It contained eight cartridges. When he pulled the slide back, he saw a ninth gleaming in the breach.
After reinserting the magazine and making sure that it clicked securely into place, he put the pistol on the passenger’s seat.
His cell phone rang. The car clock read 5:59.
The kidnapper said, “Did you enjoy your visit with Mom and Dad?”
He had not been followed to his parents’ house or away from it, and yet they knew where he had been.
He said at once, “I didn’t tell them anything.”
“What were you after—milk and cookies?”
“If you’re thinking I could get the money from them, you’re wrong. They’re not that rich.”
“We know, Mitch. We know.”
“Let me talk to Holly.”
“Not this time.”
“Let me talk to her,” he insisted.
“Relax. She’s doing fine. I’ll put her on the next call. Is that the church you and your parents attended?”
His was the only car in the parking lot, and none were passing at the moment. Across the street from the church, the only vehicles were those in driveways, none at the curb.
“Is that where you went to church?” the kidnapper asked again.
“No.”
Although he was closed in the car with the doors locked, he felt as exposed as a mouse in an open field with the vibrato of hawk wings suddenly above.
“Were you an altar boy, Mitch?”
“No.”
“Can that be true?”
“You seem to know everything. You know it’s true.”
“For a man who was never an altar boy, Mitch, you are so
like
an altar boy.”
When he didn’t at first respond, thinking the statement a non sequitur, and when the kidnapper waited in silence, Mitch at last said, “I don’t know what that means.”
“Well, I don’t mean you’re pious, that’s for sure. And I don’t mean you’re reliably truthful. With Detective Taggart, you’ve proved to be a cunning liar.”
In their two previous conversations, the man on the phone had been professional, chillingly so. This petty jeering seemed out of sync with his past performance.
He had, however, called himself a
handler
. He had bluntly said that Mitch was an instrument to be manipulated, finessed.
These taunts must have a purpose, though it eluded Mitch. The kidnapper wanted to get inside his head and mess with him, for some subtle purpose, to achieve a particular result.
“Mitch, no offense, because it’s actually kind of sweet—but you’re as
naive
as an altar boy.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. I say so.”
This might be an attempt to anger him, anger being an inhibition to clear thinking, or perhaps the purpose was to instill in him such doubt about his competence that he would remain cowed and obedient.
He had already acknowledged to himself the absolute degree of his helplessness in this matter. They could not strop his humility to a sharper edge than now existed.
“Your eyes are wide open, Mitch, but you don’t see.”
This statement unnerved him more than anything else that the kidnapper had said. Not an hour ago, in the loft of his garage, that very thought, couched in similar words, had occurred to him.
Having packed John Knox in the trunk of the car, he had returned to the loft to puzzle out how the accident had occurred. Having seen the neck of the lug wrench snared in the loop of the knot, he had settled the mystery.
But just then he had
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