Chris Mooney - The Missing

'Sure.' Boyle reached inside his jacket for the keys. He felt the Colt Commander tucked inside the shoulder holster.

Boyle unlocked the back door. The cop ran his tongue across his front teeth as he looked around at the boxes lined on the shelves. Boyle wondered if the cop was going to get inside the truck and start moving the boxes around. The fertilizer bombs were packaged in big boxes underneath the shelves. Boyle had left nothing to chance.

The cop moved his head out. 'You better get those shocks looked at.'

'I'm going to drop off the truck right now,' Boyle said. 'Have a good one.'

Ten minutes later, Boyle was back on the road, heading toward Storrow Drive. He put on his headphones and tuned his iPod to the frequency of the small listening device he had planted inside the taped folds of the brown paper wrapped around the package.

A scrambling of noises, people talking, voices far and close.

A voice came over the headphones: 'Christ, this thing's heavy.'

Next, a loud thud, and then the same voice said, 'Hey, Stan, do me a favor and pull the rest of the mail off the conveyor belt, will ya?'

'I thought you wanted me to go get us something to eat?'

'In a minute. This package just came in for the lab. I want to get it upstairs.'

Boyle took out his BlackBerry and typed the message quickly with his thumbs: 'Package delivered. About to go on X-ray machine. Test for explosives?'

Boyle hit send and waited. He wished he could talk to Richard. It would be certainly quicker and much easier than trying to type while driving.

Richard's message came through: 'They'll see mannequin on X-ray and will rush to the lab.'

Boyle hoped Richard was right. He typed back: 'Twenty minutes from hospital. Darby?'

Five minutes later, Richard's response came through. 'She's in van, with SWAT. Will turn on listening devices in 30 minutes. Signal when ready.'

Boyle hit the gas.

Stan Petarsky, one of three X-ray technicians hired by the Boston police, sat on a stool behind the controls, sipping coffee to clear his head. Last night, he had another humdinger of a fight with his wife about his drinking, and right now he didn't know what was worse – the pounding hangover or the sound of his wife's nagging voice ringing through his head.

A little nip from a bottle of Jim Beam would shut them both up. He'd have to wait until lunch, though, when the bar across the street opened.

The package was moving down the conveyor belt. When it reached the X-ray machine, he edged the controls until the package was in full view on the monitor, which was eye level with his face.

Stan stood up fast, knocking his stool over. 'Jimmy, get over here.'

'What?'

'Take a look at this.' Stan stepped back so Jimmy could get a full view of the X-ray monitor.

Inside the brown-wrapped box were severed limbs and a head. Stan could make out the legs and arms. Next to the head was a hand wearing several rings and a watch.

Stan's stomach squeezed so hard he thought he was going to dry-heave.

Jimmy rubbed a shaking hand across his dry lips. 'Back the package out of the X-ray for a minute. I want to see something.'

Stan did. Jimmy put on his bifocals and examined the writing.

'Check out the name in the return address,' Jimmy said. His face was pale.

'Carol Cranmore,' Stan said. 'So what?'

'So that's the name of the missing girl. Haven't you been following the news?'

'Christ Almighty. You think her body is in there?'

'You better call upstairs and tell them.'

'You do it. I have to do the test for explosives first.'

'You think there's a bomb stuffed up her ass?'

'Hey, I'm just following procedure.'

'I need to make some calls. While I'm on the phone, you might want to do yourself a favor, chew on some mints or gum or something. I'm getting a buzz off your breath, hear what I'm saying?'

Darby shifted in her seat. On the laptop screen were two pairs of steady lines which reminded her of an EKG.

She was itching for something to happen, needed to get busy. She kept crossing her legs.

Coop leaned in close to her. 'Is there something wrong with your ass?'

'Those devices should have turned on by now.'

'Be patient.'

Half an hour passed.

'I talked to my sister last night,' Coop said. 'Trish is going into the hospital tomorrow. They're going to induce labor.'

'How long is she overdue?' Darby's attention was still on the laptop.

'Almost two weeks,' Coop said. 'They finally picked out a name for my nephew. Fabrice.'

'She's naming the baby after an air freshener?'

'No, that's Febreze. I said Fa brice. It's French, like her husband.'

'That kid better grow up with a thick skin.'

'Tell me about it,' Coop said. 'Brandy thought the name sounded cool and hip.'

'Brandy?'

'New girl I'm seeing. She's studying to be a cosmetologist. When she graduates, she wants to move to New York and name lipsticks.'

'What does that mean? Name lipsticks?'

'Lipstick companies, they can't say colors like pink or blue. They've got to come up with cool marketing names like Pink Sugar and Loud and Lovely Lavender. Those are her names, by the way.'

'Hands down, she's certainly the brightest woman you've dated.'

The lines on the laptop's screen started vibrating.

'The listening devices are transmitting,' the FBI tech said.

Darby grabbed the edge of her seat as the van sped up.

The hospital bathroom reeked of Pine-Sol. Boyle was alone. He stood inside the last stall on the far left. He had already taken off his hat and FedEx jacket. The empty backpack, which had been strapped across his back, was now on the floor.

Boyle had worn green surgeon's scrubs underneath his clothes. He took off his boots and slipped on a pair of sneakers. After he tied a bandana around his head, he stuffed the boots and FedEx clothes into the backpack and opened the stall door.

He checked himself in the mirror. Good. A pair of stylish black-framed glasses was tucked inside his breast pocket. He put them on.

Boyle stuffed his backpack inside the garbage can. He took out his BlackBerry and typed: 'Ready. In position.'

Boyle opened the door and stepped out into the bright, busy corridor on the eighth floor. He walked down three corridors and stopped near the large bay windows overlooking the entrance for Mass General.

The only vehicles allowed near the main entrance were taxis and ambulances. He saw six ambulances parked out front. Two more ambulances were coming. Police were busy directing traffic. More police had been called in to handle the swelling crowd of reporters. They were huddled near the old brick building used for hospital deliveries.

Richard's message came through five minutes later: 'Go.'

Boyle reached inside his pocket. The detonator felt cold in his hand.

He walked away from the windows toward ICU. When he reached the waiting room, he hit the button.

A distant rumble, followed by glass shattering. Then the screaming started.

Stan Petarsky was trying hard not to think about the dead body inside the box next to his feet. He tried to think about something pleasant – like Jim Beam over ice – when the elevator door opened.

Erin Walsh, the pretty blonde he saw sometimes in the cafeteria, was standing in front of a door, talking on her cell phone and waving to him to come this way, to the stairwell. Stan picked up the box and carried it into Serology Lab.

Erin started taking pictures. Stan didn't want to stick around to see a severed body. He headed for the door, thinking about how to get his hands on some Jim Beam, when the package exploded.

Darby had a new view: a monitor showing what was happening outside the surveillance van.