Ridley Pearson - Beyond Recognition

In his mind’s eye, he saw Daphne’s red car driving past. He wanted so badly to believe it had been her car. Although he didn’t know exactly how long he had been held captive, he guessed at least ten minutes, maybe more. His hope of being rescued waned, and he returned to his prayers.

The man who called himself Jonny spoke to the wall but intended it for Ben. “You and I aren’t so different.” A half minute later he added, “I ain’t never had no little brother.”

Ben hung his head to the floor. He didn’t want the man to see he was crying.

Boldt climbed the chain link fence quickly, tearing his coat sleeve and slicing his right forearm on the sharp spikes at the top, but he was up and over more easily than he had expected. He landed at a run, pursuing Daphne as if she were the suspect.

She had crossed over an extremely rare threshold for her: operating from her emotions rather than her intellect. It was one of the most dangerous transitions a cop can make, and Boldt had no choice but to stop her before she got herself, or the boy, or all three of them into what Boldt thought of as the “red zone”-that place from which there was no out other than confrontation or violence.

She hesitated at the pay phone, as if it might answer some questions for her, sensed Boldt’s approach, and took off around the side of the office building.

Boldt took his weapon in both hands, training it down to his side, an automatic response born of some sixth sense that had responded to an internal alarm. He didn’t believe in such responses, but he trusted them when they happened.

Daphne was athletic, a daily runner, and she was fast. If she had chosen to outrun Boldt it would have been no contest, but her focus was on locating Ben, and she moved slowly alongside the building, checking the shadows. Boldt bumped her from behind and whispered, “Move, move!” as he herded her to the end of the building, his attention spread in too many directions: behind him, along the storage units, along the wall of the building. He urged her on with his left shoulder, stopped her, peered around the corner of the building, and then indicated her on ahead. She glared at him but allowed him to guide her. He drove them into a recessed brick corner that felt protected and hissed, “Stupid move.”

“He’s here, goddammit. You may not believe that but-”

“We’ll find him,” he said, to reassure her. “If he’s here, we’ll find him. He’s a kid . A curious kid, at that. Precocious. Our job is to keep him-and us-out of trouble. Not make trouble.” He scanned the area as he spoke, rarely meeting her eyes. It didn’t escape him that he was suddenly playing the psychologist and she the renegade cop. “We’ll check the rows, but we’ll do it organized, not running around on our own. If we work together, side-to-side, we can net him. Listen, it’s like a giant supermarket, these rows. We’ll miss him if we don’t do it in an organized way.” She looked a little dazed. “You hearing me?”

She nodded faintly.

“We both want him to be okay,” he reminded her. He was hoping that by pinning her here he might buy time for the arrival of the backup, but to utilize them would either mean returning to the radio in his car or spending time on the cellular phone relaying messages-and Daphne’s patience was running low. He could sense her about to make another break. He felt rushed, hurried; he knew that was when he made mistakes. He had to get her involved, engaged in a plan, focused. If she went running through the facility she might get them all killed. He decided to hit her with the truth. “May I remind you,” he said, still scanning the immediate area, “that Garman has an undetermined amount of this rocket fuel? Just consider that for a moment.” He stared at her.

“Point taken.”

“An undetermined amount.”

“I get it, Sergeant . Let’s get on with it.”

“Okay,” Boldt said, forming a plan, wishing for the backup. “Right up against this first row. Weapons at the ready. We walk quietly-super quietly-slowly. Patiently. We hold position at the end of the first row. Round the corner, cover the side. Round the next corner and make eye contact. We hold to the wall and meet in the center. We cross to the next row and start it all over. If we need cover, we press ourselves into the recesses at the garage doors. We walk quietly because we’re listening-for voices, for movement, a radio. We’re interested in light and sound. Those are our signals.” He paused, hoping some of it might sink in. “If this is his lab, his storage area-and we have every reason to believe it is-it’s a second home to this creep. It’s familiar turf for him.” He released the gun with one hand and tapped his forehead. “Keep that right in here: his turf. Expect the unexpected. We watch for things like trip wires, sensors maybe, who knows? He has surprised us too many times to count. He prides himself on it. No surprises. Expect anything. Everything.”

He had talked long enough to calm her. Or perhaps his words had sunk in. Her eyes trained on his, she thanked him and followed it with an apology. Then she said desperately, “I just want to find him.”

He nodded. There were a dozen things he wanted to tell her-about Liz, about the change in his thoughts on field work, about feeling as if he were tempting fate. But the look on her face wouldn’t allow him to back out of his plans, and he realized that she loved little Ben Santori.

If that were Miles in there…. The words rang inside his head like bells.

“Okay?” she asked.

“Okay,” he answered. But it didn’t feel okay. As they crossed the blacktop toward the first row of units, an increasing sense of foreboding filled him. Daphne’s intuition was right; Ben was in trouble.

They moved methodically through the rows of storage units, and much to Boldt’s surprise Daphne stayed in lockstep, following Boldt’s plan to the letter. The sound of traffic on I-5 was oppressive, interrupted only by the drumming in Boldt’s ears. He rolled his shoes across the blacktop to avoid being heard, keeping himself alert for the unexpected.

Beyond the third set of blue units, all doubts concerning Garman’s whereabouts were suspended. A wash of pale light illuminated the fronts of the units that Boldt and Daphne faced; the source of that light, the unit immediately to Boldt’s right. At the far end of the row of units, Daphne’s face appeared. Boldt signaled her. Together, they moved toward each other, ducking from one doorway to the next, moving toward the center of the row. Less than a minute later, they stood on opposite sides of the garage door that was leaking light, ten feet apart. Boldt’s heart pounded heavily in his chest and clouded his hearing as he tried to discern the sounds coming from within. It sounded like a fan. Like a cat hissing, or water just beginning to boil. But it was none of these, he realized; it was a gas lantern and the voice of Jonny Garman, coming from a throat burned in a fire in North Dakota, a voice trying to make itself heard.

When Boldt signaled Daphne to withdraw from their positions by Garman’s storage unit, her first temptation was to disobey-allow him to take a few steps back and then throw open the garage door and face whatever Garman had to offer. But intelligence, training, and discipline won out, leaving her feeling a victim of her profession.

Step by step they pulled away from the unit, back to the far corners, and finally retreated until they caught sight of each other once again in the second aisle. Boldt motioned toward the office, where they met outside a few minutes later.

“We’re going to assume it’s Garman”-Boldt led off at a fraction of a whisper-”and work from there. If Gaynes or LaMoia spot a suspect, we’ll reconsider, but buying this as coincidence is too great a stretch for me. Garman came here to prepare-”