Robin Cook: Cure

“I believe so,” Colt said. “If I think of anything else, I’ll give you a quick call.”

“When do you want to pick everything up?” Curt asked. “I’ll have it all at the front desk with your name on it. What about night-vision goggles?”

“Thanks for reminding us,” Colt said. “Let me ask Grover.”

“Of course I want night-vision goggles,” Grover said, hearing both sides of Colt’s conversation.

“Tonight’s forecast is calling for clear skies and a gibbous moon,” Curt said. “Just in case you haven’t checked.”

“I still want the night-vision goggles,” Grover said.

“Same with me,” Colt added.

“And I want a sniper rifle with a night-vision scope in case Colt is being chased when he comes out of the house with the kid.”

“Don’t even suggest it,” Colt said.

“It’s better to be...”

“Yeah, I know, ‘safe than sorry.’ Let’s abandon the clichés, will you please!” Colt pleaded.

“What time?” Curt said, interrupting the two agents. “What time do you want this stuff available by?”

“We don’t need it until around eleven. I don’t want to do this break-in until after one a.m., or even later.”

“It will be waiting for you by nine p.m. If you suddenly think of anything else, call me and I’ll do my very best.”

“Thanks, Curt,” Grover and Colt echoed into Colt’s cell phone.

March 28, 2010

Sunday, 12:31 a.m.

Whitestone, Queens, New York

After picking up all the equipment that Curt had rounded up for them, Grover and Colt had retraced the route that they had used that afternoon traveling from CRT’s main office out to Whitestone, Queens, a trip that had been very worthwhile indeed. The first thing they had learned that afternoon was that the group that had kidnapped JJ were not quite the amateurs Grover and Colt had earlier suspected. The perpetrators were cleverly and covertly watching the location where they were holding the child, 3746 Powells Cove Boulevard. It had only been over the last fifty or so years that professional kidnappers had realized that surveillance was a smart move, so that if the authorities, by one mechanism or another, were closing in on the hideout, the people holding the victim could be alerted to move on if there was time or kill the victim and hide the remains in a previously prepared location. Without the victim or the victim’s remains, prosecution of the case was always difficult at best. The only reason Grover and Colt had discovered these watchers was because they had specifically looked for them. It was two guys in a black SUV tucked into a neighbor’s driveway.

The second important thing they’d been able to achieve on their afternoon reconnaissance was to locate a good-size marina in the town just beyond Whitestone. Although the marina was technically not yet open for the season, they had been able to rent a Zodiac and a boat slip. They had to rent the boat for a week to justify the marina to get the outboard out of winter storage.

Trying the boat out, they had motored back to 3746 Powells Cove Boulevard. Seeing no one, particularly no guards, as they had from the land side, they’d allowed themselves to approach under the pier exactly the way they would that night. Sitting there under the wooden pier, Colt had used his laptop to scan the usual wireless alarm frequencies and write them down, while Grover had kept vigilance. At one point Grover thought he’d heard a baby wail. Looking at his partner to see if he’d heard, Colt lifted his eyes from the computer screen, smiled, and gave a thumbs-up sign.

The three-story house itself was appreciated much better from the water side. It was constructed of reinforced cement in a faux-Mediterranean style. Half buried in the top of the surrounding retaining wall were pieces of broken glass, and above it coils of razor wire. Despite this formidable defense on the land side, the waterfront was completely open, with the house set back about a hundred feet from the water’s edge. Immediately in front of the house was the pool. Along the side was a tennis court. They had seen the dogs, but only from a distance when they had left.

Now, just after midnight, pulling back into the marina where they had rented the boat that afternoon, Grover doused the headlights. With only the light from the moon, he drove around to the water side of the building and backed up to the pier where the slip they had rented was located. The marina itself was mostly dark, except for dim lights in a display window on the roadside, containing gleaming marine hardware, such as stainless-steel cleats and mahogany blocks. On the water side the only lights were positioned out on the pier complex on the top of long poles and directed downward to provide cones of light at various locations. The weather could not have been more perfect, without a visible cloud. There was no wind to speak of and the surface of the water was placid.

With little talk, the men unloaded the gear at the base of the pier. Then while Grover moved the SUV back to the parking area, where it would be less conspicuous, Colt carried the equipment out to the Zodiac and quickly stored it aboard. They worked quickly and silently. Only two cars went by on the road, and neither stopped or even slowed.

With a hand on one of the pier’s big cleats for mooring yachts, Colt steadied the boat while Grover jumped on. Immediately he started the engine before Colt boarded. Keeping the power low, Grover guided the boat out of the slip and then out of the pier complex. He had access to the night-vision scopes but didn’t need them for this phase of the operation. He did not turn on the running lights.

Not before motoring a thousand yards or so out into Little Neck Bay did Grover significantly up the speed. Like most outboards, the motor was noisy, and he kept the power limited to what was needed to get the boat planing and then to maintain it.

Moving progressively away from the shore, where there was significant artificial illumination, it became gradually darker except for the area immediately around the moon, and thousands more stars blinked on in the rest of the inverted bowl of the darkened sky. With the water temperature in the forties, the wind created by the Zodiac’s forward motion was bitingly cold, and both men hunkered down as best they could.

Rounding Willets Point, Colt and Grover suddenly had the illuminated span of the Throgs Neck Bridge in sight with the Whitestone Bridge beyond, both soaring over the water from Queens over to the Bronx. Ten minutes later they passed under the Throgs Neck Bridge.

As the Throgs Neck Bridge dropped behind them and the Whitestone loomed ahead, Colt steered the Zodiac to the left and headed for shore at approximately the location of 3746 Powells Cove Boulevard. About five hundred yards out, Colt cut the power. At one hundred yards, Colt turned off the motor. The two men picked up paddles and paddled the rest of the way.

Most of the homes lining the shore were completely dark. A few had one or two lights on, either on their elaborate seaside terraces or within their homes. One home off to the far left was ablaze with lights. From where Grover and Colt were, they guessed it was a party because there were both indoor and outdoor lights and people could be seen on various terraces and balconies. Despite the distance, the faint sound of voices and music occasionally drifted across the water and reached their ears.

Although Grover and Colt had conversed in low tones earlier, confirming their plans, once the motor had been turned off and they were approaching the tip of the Barbera pier, they were completely silent. They were even careful with their paddles as they drew them through the water, lifted them out, and slipped them back in unison, pushing the boat forward silently, closing in on the pier.