darkness, “it damn well better be ransom. Because if it’s not—”
“Eliza—”
She slapped him again.
“Goddamn you! You let him take her!”
“Mrs. Brice,” Agent Devereaux said, “this won’t help.”
It was helping her. Elizabeth raised her hand again, but a black hand grabbed her wrist. The rage turned on Agent Devereaux.
“Let—me—go.”
The phone rang. Agent Devereaux released her and sat next to John. The agent wearing headphones activated the recorder then nodded at Agent Devereaux. The phone rang again.
“Mr. Brice,” Agent Devereaux said.
John remained in the same position she had left him: his hands still cupping his face to block her blows and crying and saying softly, “I’m sorry.”
The phone rang again.
“Mr. Brice, can you take the call?”
Her husband didn’t move. Elizabeth thought, Utterly useless in a fight , then she thrust her hand out to Agent Devereaux.
“Give it to me.”
Agent Devereaux lifted the phone off the receiver and handed it to her. The tape was running. She put the phone to her ear.
“Elizabeth Brice.”
A child’s voice came across. “Can Sam play?”
“ What? No, Sam can’t play today!”
The agents exhaled and rolled their eyes in unison. Elizabeth handed the phone to Agent Devereaux and sighed; the child’s voice had given her pause. Her anger spent, the rage retreated like a tornado into the dark sky and she now gazed down upon the destruction left behind—her husband still sobbing and his face red and welted—and the slightest twinge of remorse tried to ignite her conscience. But she stomped it out like a discarded cigarette.
It’s his damn fault! He let someone take her!
Her respiration spiked. One last glare at her utterly useless husband, then she marched out of the study and down the gallery and was crossing the foyer when the doorbell rang again. She stopped, yanked the front door open, and stared at the man standing on her porch. Anyone who knew his life would have expected a bigger man, a harder looking man. But there he stood, perhaps an artist who painted the West and dressed the part, wearing rugged Santa Fe-style attire that looked so phony on the models in the Neiman Marcus catalog but seemed born to his lean frame with his chiseled facial features and ruddy skin, the ragged blond hair framing his tanned face and setting off the most brilliant blue eyes imaginable. Remarkably handsome for a sixty-year-old man, he could be a middle-aged movie star. Instead, he was a drunk.
Elizabeth Brice turned and walked away from her father-in-law.
8:59 A.M.
Ben Brice stepped inside his son’s home and into the middle of a busy intersection. He quickly retreated as uniformed police and FBI agents and a maid talking into a portable phone and his grandson in a baseball uniform pursued by a young Hispanic woman— “ Señor Sam, the oatmeal, it is ready!”—raced past him.
Beneath his feet was a polished hardwood floor; above his head was a lighted dome painted with a mural. A wide gallery extended off the entry into both wings of the residence. A sweeping staircase rose in front of him to a second-floor landing. Beyond the stairs was a living area with a two-story-tall bank of windows looking out onto a brilliant blue pool with a waterfall. Gracie had said her new home had cost $3 million. At the time, he thought she had to be mistaken; but now, looking around, Ben could believe this place cost every bit of $3 million, maybe more. Which was good: his son could afford the ransom.
Ben had not spoken to John in fiveyears, when he had last come to Dallas for Sam’s birth. He almost didn’t recognize the slight young man who had wandered aimlessly into the foyer and who now found himself caught in the middle of a fast-moving stream of bodies like a bug in a whirlpool; he looked defeated and lost, like the senile World War Two vets at the VA hospital, a blank face in a world no longer recognizable. Ben dropped the duffel bag,
“Eliza—”
She slapped him again.
“Goddamn you! You let him take her!”
“Mrs. Brice,” Agent Devereaux said, “this won’t help.”
It was helping her. Elizabeth raised her hand again, but a black hand grabbed her wrist. The rage turned on Agent Devereaux.
“Let—me—go.”
The phone rang. Agent Devereaux released her and sat next to John. The agent wearing headphones activated the recorder then nodded at Agent Devereaux. The phone rang again.
“Mr. Brice,” Agent Devereaux said.
John remained in the same position she had left him: his hands still cupping his face to block her blows and crying and saying softly, “I’m sorry.”
The phone rang again.
“Mr. Brice, can you take the call?”
Her husband didn’t move. Elizabeth thought, Utterly useless in a fight , then she thrust her hand out to Agent Devereaux.
“Give it to me.”
Agent Devereaux lifted the phone off the receiver and handed it to her. The tape was running. She put the phone to her ear.
“Elizabeth Brice.”
A child’s voice came across. “Can Sam play?”
“ What? No, Sam can’t play today!”
The agents exhaled and rolled their eyes in unison. Elizabeth handed the phone to Agent Devereaux and sighed; the child’s voice had given her pause. Her anger spent, the rage retreated like a tornado into the dark sky and she now gazed down upon the destruction left behind—her husband still sobbing and his face red and welted—and the slightest twinge of remorse tried to ignite her conscience. But she stomped it out like a discarded cigarette.
It’s his damn fault! He let someone take her!
Her respiration spiked. One last glare at her utterly useless husband, then she marched out of the study and down the gallery and was crossing the foyer when the doorbell rang again. She stopped, yanked the front door open, and stared at the man standing on her porch. Anyone who knew his life would have expected a bigger man, a harder looking man. But there he stood, perhaps an artist who painted the West and dressed the part, wearing rugged Santa Fe-style attire that looked so phony on the models in the Neiman Marcus catalog but seemed born to his lean frame with his chiseled facial features and ruddy skin, the ragged blond hair framing his tanned face and setting off the most brilliant blue eyes imaginable. Remarkably handsome for a sixty-year-old man, he could be a middle-aged movie star. Instead, he was a drunk.
Elizabeth Brice turned and walked away from her father-in-law.
8:59 A.M.
Ben Brice stepped inside his son’s home and into the middle of a busy intersection. He quickly retreated as uniformed police and FBI agents and a maid talking into a portable phone and his grandson in a baseball uniform pursued by a young Hispanic woman— “ Señor Sam, the oatmeal, it is ready!”—raced past him.
Beneath his feet was a polished hardwood floor; above his head was a lighted dome painted with a mural. A wide gallery extended off the entry into both wings of the residence. A sweeping staircase rose in front of him to a second-floor landing. Beyond the stairs was a living area with a two-story-tall bank of windows looking out onto a brilliant blue pool with a waterfall. Gracie had said her new home had cost $3 million. At the time, he thought she had to be mistaken; but now, looking around, Ben could believe this place cost every bit of $3 million, maybe more. Which was good: his son could afford the ransom.
Ben had not spoken to John in fiveyears, when he had last come to Dallas for Sam’s birth. He almost didn’t recognize the slight young man who had wandered aimlessly into the foyer and who now found himself caught in the middle of a fast-moving stream of bodies like a bug in a whirlpool; he looked defeated and lost, like the senile World War Two vets at the VA hospital, a blank face in a world no longer recognizable. Ben dropped the duffel bag,
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