John Locke - Saving Rachel

I hear some animated elfin chatter up ahead and see the four midgets—the ones who’d shot at me moments earlier—thirty yards away, laughing and high-fiving each other before climbing into a waiting limousine and driving off.

What the hell is that all about?

I’d understand if they’d hit me or killed me or stopped me. But they’d only succeeded in scaring me off. Is that what they’re celebrating? And if so, I wonder, why? I think about following them in Mary’s car, but I decide it’s more important to check on Karen.

I put my sock and shoe back on and walk the two blocks back and one block over to my Audi. No one’s blocking me this time. I climb in, back the car out, and start driving to Karen Vogel’s condo.

A shrill noise explodes from under the driver’s seat, and I’m so startled I nearly crash the car.

It’s a cell phone—not my cell phone, mind you, but a new one that’s hidden under the driver’s seat, the same place they’d hidden the photo of Rachel this morning. Only it’s the loudest cell phone ever built. It could wake the dead.

I click the “talk” button. It’s the gangster.

“We got your lady with us,” he says.

They’ve kidnapped Karen!

“You’ll never believe where we found her. Hey, she seems upset. She doesn’t want me to tell you where we found her. Funny, huh?” “Leave her out of this!” I scream. “What the fuck’s going on here? What do you want from me?” “You like, you can talk to her now. But only for a second.” I hear a muffled sound as the phone is being passed, and then a voice shouts, “Sam! Oh my God, these men—” I feel like I’m on a hundred-mile-an-hour roller coaster to hell, with Stephen King at the controls. The voice isn’t Karen’s. Then I hear a scream. … not Karen Vogel’s scream … Rachel’s. The voice and scream are Rachel’s. They’ve kidnapped—are kidnapping—my wife.

“Oh God! Please!” I shout. “Let her go. I’ll do anything. I swear to God, anything . Just let her go!”

“Sam, you sound like you’re ready to talk. So what I want, you go home now, go home, get on your … whatcha call … Web site, wait for my call.”

“Look,” I tell him, “let Rachel go, you don’t need her. If this is about the money, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll give you the codes. I’ll give them to you right now. Just let her go.” “You got the codes memorized?” “I do.” “All of them?” “All of them.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line while he thought about it. Finally, he says, “Go home, Sam. We’ll call you soon.”

I hear the sound of Rachel struggling in the background. “Rachel!” I yell.

Then I hear a couple of sharp sounds, and Rachel emits a bloodcurdling scream that sickens me to the core. I’m trembling with fury and helplessness, thinking about that Mr. Clean motherfucker putting his hands on my wife. “Rachel!” I yell again but realize I’m speaking into a dead connection.

Chapter 16

Ifeel trapped, like a rabbit caught in a snare. Would I give up the codes to the fortunes of the world’s most dangerous men in order to save Rachel? Of course I would, the same way a rabbit would chew off its own leg to get away.

Because this shit has got to stop.

I’m on Westport Road, heading home, wondering if the gangster and Mr. Clean are there with Rachel. He seemed taken with the idea of where they found her, so my best guess is she was on her way home. Last we’d talked, she was heading to lunch. I’d mentioned I was at the house, and I probably sounded funny to her. She asked if I was sick, so maybe she decided to come home and check on me and got ambushed.

I realize there’s another possibility. Maybe she knows about Karen. Maybe she went to Karen’s condo during her lunch hour. Maybe the gangster picked her up at Karen’s. Did he pick up Karen too? No. He would have said. Or Rachel would have said something about her just now. So where’s Karen Vogel? And why was her purse upended on the kitchen floor?

I want to check on Karen, but I have to get home in order to save Rachel. I’ve known Karen one month, had sex with her exactly once, and my life has turned into a living hell. Mary’s dead, Rachel’s been kidnapped, and God only knows what’s going on with Karen.

I want to pick up speed and get home as quickly as possible, but the road has tapered into two lanes and I’m behind a line of cars. We’re moving, but regular speed. There’s nothing to do but follow the other cars past the church, soccer field, assorted fast-food restaurants, and … My cell phone rings—mine, not the new one. I pick up. “You trying to rob me, Sam?” “Who is this?” “Donovan Creed.”

Shit!

“No, sir, of course not.” My mind is racing. Creed is the professional hit man, the last guy on the list I’d want to piss off. Why on earth would he think I’m trying to— Wait, the computer! I’d entered Creed’s code a couple hours ago when I thought Rachel might have been kidnapped, before I found out she was okay. Though now she’s been kidnapped for real. Christ, will you just listen to me? Can this really be happening? It must be. You simply can’t make this shit up.

Creed is waiting for me to say something, but I’m trying to figure out how he knew I’d entered his code into my computer. Finally, he speaks. “Sam, you must be in a lot of trouble.” “Why do you say that?” “Sam, listen to me. Whatever you think your problems are, they’re nothing compared to dealing with me.”

Creed has this eerie kind of voice. Just hearing him say my name sends a chill down my spine. He’s right; I don’t want to have to deal with him. I decide to come clean.

“They’ve kidnapped my wife.”

“Rachel.”

How the fuck does everyone know Rachel’s name?

“They’re hurting her,” I say. “She’s my wife . What would you do if you were me?” “If I were you?” he says. “If I were you, I wouldn’t fuck with Donovan Creed.” “What, you’re saying you’d let your own wife die?” “This discussion is going nowhere,” he says. “No,” I say, emboldened. “I want to know what you’d do in my place.” “Sam, we had this discussion two years ago, when I asked if I could trust you with my money.”

I think about that, but the other thing is weighing on my mind— not Rachel, God help me, but the other thing. I can’t help it. That’s how my brain is wired. I have to ask him. “Mr. Creed, how did you know?” “About the code being entered? I had a frequency chip imbedded into my hip.” “You what?” “It’s tuned to the frequency of the digits.”

I’m stuck at a traffic light, wondering if I should run it. Better not. I don’t need cops on my ass. “The sixteen digits have a frequency?”

“Sam, you’ve got your specialty, but this part is way over your head. Let me put it this way: You put together a nice little money-moving scheme. It’s off the government’s radar. You tell me you can be trusted. I’m in. So I get my people to put together a little device that starts vibrating the minute you—or someone else—enters the code on your computer.”

“What’s the range of this device?” I say.

“The planet Earth.”

The light turns green. Something else suddenly comes to mind. “Wait a minute. The computer I used today—it’s new. Your device can’t be keyed to this one.” Creed sighs. “Sam, I’m quite familiar with your computer.” “How’s that possible?” I’ve been living in your house for two years.” “What?” “You control a quarter billion dollars of my money. Do I really strike you as a hands-off type of guy?”