James PATTERSON - The Big Bad Wolf

I nodded. ‘Was she blindfolded during the ride? I assume that she was.’

‘No. That’s odd, isn’t it? She saw her captor several times. Also his vehicle. He didn’t seem to care one way or the other.’

That was a genuine surprise to me. It didn’t track, and I said so.

‘Stump the stars,’ said the agent. ‘Isn’t that what this case is about so far?’

The state trooper barracks occupied a redbrick building tucked back from the highway. There wasn’t any activity outside, and I took that as a good sign. At least I had beaten the press there. No one had leaked the story so far.

I hurried inside the barracks to meet Audrey Meek. I was eager to find out how she had survived against all odds, the first woman who had.

My very first impression was that Audrey Meek didn’t look at all like herself, not as she did in any of her publicity. Not now anyway, not after her terrible ordeal. Mrs Meek was thinner, especially in the face. Her eyes were dark blue, but the sockets appeared hollowed-out. She had some color on both cheeks.

‘I’m FBI Agent Alex Cross. It’s good to see you safe,’ I said in a quiet voice. I didn’t want to interview her right now, but it had to be done.

Audrey Meek nodded and her eyes met mine. I had the sense that she knew how lucky she was.

‘You have some color in your cheeks. Did you get that today?’ I asked her. ‘While you were in the woods?’

‘I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so. He took me outside for walks every day he held me captive. Considering the circumstances, he was often considerate. He made my meals, good ones for the most part. He told me he’d been a chef at one time in Richmond. We had long talks almost every day, really long talks. It was so strange, everything about it. There was one day in the middle when he wasn’t at the house at all. I was petrified he’d left me there to die in the woods. But I didn’t really believe he would.’

I didn’t interrupt her. I wanted to let Audrey Meek tell her story, without any pressure or steering from me. It was astonishing to me that she had been released. It didn’t happen very often in cases like this one.

‘Georges? My children?’ she asked. ‘Have they arrived yet? Will you let me see them if they’re here?’

‘They’re on their way,’ I said. ‘We’ll bring them in as soon as they arrive. I’d like to ask a few questions while everything is still fresh in your mind. I’m sorry about this. There may be other missing people, Mrs Meek. We think that there are.’

‘Oh God,’ she whispered. ‘Let me try to help then. If I can, I will. Ask your questions.’

She was a brave woman and she told me about the kidnapping, including a description of the man and woman who had grabbed her. It fit the late Slava Vasilev and Zoya Petrov. Then Audrey Meek took me through the ritual of the days that she was held captive by the man who called himself the Art Director.

‘He said he liked to wait on me, that he enjoyed it immensely. It was as if he was used to being subservient. But I sensed he also wanted to be my friend. It was so terribly weird. He’d seen me on TV and read articles about Meek, my company. He said he admired my sense of style and the way I didn’t seem to have too many airs about myself. He made me have sex with him.’ Audrey Meek was holding herself together so well. Her strength amazed me, and I wondered if that was what her captor had admired.

‘Can I get you water? Anything?’ I asked.

She shook her head. ‘I saw his face,’ she said. ‘I even tried to draw it for the police. I think it’s a good likeness. It’s him.’

This was getting stranger by the moment. Why would the Art Director let her see him, then release her? I’d never known anything like it, not in any other kidnapping case.

Audrey Meek sighed, and nervously clasped and unclasped her hands as she continued.

‘He admitted that he was obsessive-compulsive. About cleanliness, art, style, about loving another human being. He confessed several times that he adored me. He was often derogatory about himself. Did I tell you about the house?’ she asked. ‘I’m not sure what I said here – or to the officers who found me.’

‘You didn’t talk about the house yet,’ I said.

‘It was covered with some material, like a heavy-duty cellophane. It reminded me of event art. Like Christo. There were dozens of paintings inside. Very good ones. You ought to be able to find a house covered in cellophane.’

‘We’ll find it,’ I agreed. ‘We’re looking now.’

The door to the room where we were talking opened a crack. A trooper in a brimmed hat peeked in, then he opened the door wide and Audrey Meek’s husband, Georges, and her two children burst inside. It was such an unbelievably rare moment in abduction cases, especially one in which someone has been missing for nearly a week. The Meek children looked afraid at first. Their father gently urged them forward and unbelievable joy took over. Their faces were wreathed in smiles and tears, and there was an incredible group hug that seemed to last for ever.

‘Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! ’ the smaller child shrieked and clung to her mother as if she’d never let go of her again.

My eyes filled, and then I went to the worktable. Audrey Meek had made two drawings. I looked at the face of the man who had held her captive for a week. He looked very ordinary, like anybody you’d meet on the street.

The Art Director .

Why did you let her go? I wondered.

We got another possible break around midnight. The police had information about a house covered with a plastic material in Ottsville, Pennsylvania. Ottsville was about sixty-five miles away, and we drove there in several cars in the middle of the night. It was tough duty at the end of a long day, but nobody was complaining too much.

Ottsville was about seven miles from Erwinna, Pennsylvania, where a covered bridge crossed the Delaware River to New Jersey. Unfortunately, the ride from the bridge was on narrow, winding roads and took over twenty minutes.

When we arrived, the scene reminded me of my past life in D.C. – officers used to wait for me there too. Three sedans and a couple of black vans were parked along the heavily wooded country road around a bend from a dirt lane that led to the house. Ned Mahoney and I met up with the local sheriff, Eddie Lyle.

‘Lights are all out in the house,’ Mahoney sniffed as we approached what was actually a renovated log cabin. The only access to the secluded property was the dirt road. His HRT teams were waiting on his command to ‘go’.

‘It’s nearly two,’ I said. ‘He might be waiting on us, though. I think there’s something desperate about this guy.’

‘Why’s that?’ Mahoney wanted to know. ‘I need to hear.’

‘He let her go. She saw his face, and the house, the car too. He must have known we’d find him here.’

‘My people know what they’re doing,’ the sheriff interrupted, and sounded offended that he was being ignored. I didn’t much care what he thought – I had seen a local, inexperienced rookie cop blown away in Virginia one time. ‘ I know what I’m doing too,’ the sheriff added.

I stopped talking to Mahoney and stared at Lyle. ‘Hold it right there. We don’t know what’s waiting for us inside the house, but we do know this – he knew we’d find this place and come for him. Now you tell your men to stand down. FBI HRT goes in first! You’re backup for us. Do you have a problem with that?’

The sheriff’s face reddened and he thrust out his chin. ‘I sure as hell do, but it doesn’t mean fuck-all, does it?’