John Sandford - The Hanged Man’s Song

“How about a real sense of humor?” I suggested.

She was ragging on me, which was good: she knew everything that happened in the apartment building, so there probably weren’t any thugs waiting on the landing.

THErest of the evening was spent systematically going through the last five files, figuring out exactly what was there. An index helped, but the entries were often cryptic in themselves-just a couple of words or initials that Bobby would recognize.

At one o’clock in the morning, I popped an Ambien to take me down, and got six hours of good sleep. Sometime before nine o’clock the next morning, I was again crossing the rolling green landscape of Ohio, heading toward I-80, which would take me into Chicago.

I hadn’t thought much about Carp-what he might be doing-since I’d last seen him on his bicycle outside Rock Creek Park. He was in hiding, I thought. I’d also lost track of the murder investigation in Jackson, which I resolved to check into that night. If the feds didn’t winkle him out pretty soon, I’d start messaging the FBI myself.

At ten o’clock, or a little after, I stopped at a Dairy Queen to get an ice-cream cone. I was leaning against the car’s front fender, munching the dipped-chocolate coating off the ice cream, when I heard the phone ring in the car. LuEllen.

I scrambled to get inside without dripping ice cream on the upholstery, got the phone, and punched it up. “Yeah?”

Child’s voice, shaky, and thin, as if she were some distance from the phone’s mouthpiece: “Mr. Kidd? He took me on the way to the liberry.”

“What?”

“He took me on the way to the liberry. He wants Bobby’s laptop.”

Shit. Not LuEllen. It was Rachel. “Where are you, honey? What’re-”

“Kidd? This is James Carp.”

Like getting whacked in the forehead. “Carp?”

“I assume you’re the one who took the laptop out of my car. Pretty smart. I want it back. I’ll trade you.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“The laptop. And Rachel, here. I’ve got her, and I’m going to keep her until I get the laptop. But there’s a deadline. I assume you’re still in Washington. I want you down here near this place, Longstreet, as soon as you can get here. Tonight? Tonight, I think.”

“I’m not in Washington,” I said. “I can’t get there tonight. I’m in my car in the middle of nowhere.”

“Then get somewhere,” he snapped. His voice had a high, squeaky quality, as though it were on the edge of cracking; as though he were on the edge of cracking. “I’ll tell you this. This is what I’m going to do. I’m gonna stick this girl so far out in the woods that you’ll never find her. Out in the wilderness. I’m gonna chain her to a tree. If you fuck with me, I’ll never go back, and you’ll never find out where she is.”

“I’ll get you the laptop, but I can’t get there tonight,” I said. My voice was scared, and I didn’t care if it showed; maybe it was better that it showed. And I was lying like a motherfucker, trying to buy time. “I’m way up in West Virginia. I can get there maybe tomorrow afternoon. Honest to God, I’m out in the sticks. I’ll get to an airport, try to find a flight that’ll get me into Memphis, and I’ll get a car from there. But don’t put her out in the woods. If you put her out in the woods and she dies, you’ll get the death penalty. You still might be clear with the cops.”

“Oh, bullshit. They know I killed Bobby. The only thing that’ll get me clear is that laptop, and the files. If I have that, they’ll talk. They’ll let me go off somewhere and play with myself. Otherwise, I’m toast. You try to jump me, I swear to God I’ll put a gun in my mouth and little miss black girl here will rot under a tree in the middle of a swamp.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t do that,” I said, as urgently as I could.

“Fuck you. I’ll talk to you again tomorrow.”

He was gone.

I CALLEDJohn. “I just got a phone call from James Carp. He’s there in Longstreet and he says he’s got Rachel. Have you seen her?”

“Rachel?” He was sputtering like I had. “Rachel? She just left here half an hour ago, walking down to the library.”

“I talked to a little girl, just for a moment. Sounded like Rachel. She said he got her on the way to the library, goddamnit, John, I think he got her, you gotta check.”

“Call you back,” he rasped, and he was gone.

I HADpassed Cleveland on I-80. As soon as John was off the phone, I turned around and headed back, my laptop propped against the steering wheel. I pulled up Microsoft’s Streets and Trips program. Cleveland International was on my side of the metro area, fortunately, and I was able to take I-480 right back in. As soon as I figured out where I was going, I called directory assistance and got phone numbers for four charter air services. I was probably sixteen hours from Longstreet by road, close to a thousand miles. But maybe I could get a plane into Greenville.

The first place I called at Cleveland International was basically an air ambulance service. The woman who answered the phone recommended another service, whose number I didn’t have, but who she said was most likely to have a plane free quickly.

I called, and got a man’s quiet voice. “Rogers Air Transport.”

“I need to get a plane to Greenville, Mississippi, in the next couple of hours,” I said, and my voice reflected it. “Do you have one, or do you know where I could get one?”

“What do you want, exactly?”

“To get down there as fast as I can. I’ve got a family emergency.”

“Well, uh, I can get you a Lear into Greenville, have you down there in a couple of hours or a little more. But, uh, it won’t be cheap.”

“How much?”

“Mm, I’d have to figure it.” There was a moment of silence, and I had the feeling that he was staring at the ceiling, rather than running an accounting program. He came back. “About forty-five hundred. That’s if I don’t have to hang around down there.” He sounded apologetic.

“I’ll take it,” I said. “I’m on the way to your place now. I’m maybe thirty or forty miles out. You won’t have to hang around, I’ll fly back commercial to pick up my car.”

“About payment, uh, we require-”

“You can have it any way you want it,” I said. “Cash, check, or credit card.”

“Cash would be fine.”

ROGERSAir Transport had its worldwide headquarters in a cream-colored metal pole barn that served as both hangar and office. I parked in front, dug my stash cash out of the trunk, got one bag with clothes and another that had all three laptops, and carried them around to the office, which smelled pleasantly of aviation gas and hot oil, and was empty.

“Hello?” I called. Nothing. A side door led out of the office, and I stuck my head out and saw a redheaded man walking toward me. He wore denim overalls and a train engineer’s hat, and was wiping his hands on a rag. “Mr. Kidd?” he asked cheerfully.

“Yes.”

“I’m Jim Rogers.” He stuck out a hand and I shook it. “We’re ready if you are.”

“My car’s outside.”

“It’ll be okay there until you can get back. I hope it’s nothing terrible down in Greenville.”

“It’s bad enough,” I said. I wasn’t going to be able to avoid saying something. “My dad’s had a heart attack. They’re gonna try to fix things, but nobody knows what’s going to happen.”

“Aw, too bad,” he said. A woman came around the corner, mid-thirties with smile lines around her eyes, a good tan, a ponytail, and a flight suit.

“This is Marcia, our co-pilot,” Rogers said.

“I’m his old lady,” Marcia said. “You ready?”