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Authors: James Patterson
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kind woman said quietly as she poured us coffee. “She completely beat it. The operations. The chemo. She’s a fighter. This is nothing compared to that. She’ll get out of this. I know she will.”
I wished I could have shared Mrs. Skinner’s startling conviction.
Some PD TARU guys arrived and got up on the Skinners’ wall phones and cell phones. An FBI tech from the New York office showed up as well and installed some e-mail–tracing software, in case our guy decided to switch tactics.
Mrs. Skinner showed us Chelsea’s room on the third floor. It had a huge, sloping beamed ceiling and a little balcony that overlooked the garden and the covered in-ground pool. It was sleek with modern furniture. It looked more like a rich thirty-five-year-old’s room than a teenager’s. Jacob’s room by comparison looked unsophisticated, childish.
There had to be a link between Chelsea and Jacob. They were both only children, both rich. We’d learned that Chelsea attended Fieldston, a nearby expensive private school that was close to Horace Mann, where Jacob had gone to high school. Had they known each other? Maybe there was a teacher who had worked at both places. Was that the connection?
One thing I was sure of, this guy was definitely not picking these kids out of a hat.
After Mrs. Skinner left, Emily pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and got on the kid’s laptop. Chelsea’s home page was her MySpace page.
Over Emily’s shoulder I read parts of Chelsea’s blog. Some of what she was saying was pretty out there. Sexual boastings. Violent fantasies. I was shocked to see that there were some fairly explicit photos of her.
“Is this what kids are up to now?” Emily said.
I shook my head alongside her as a photo of Chelsea with mascara-thick eyelashes leered from the screen. Was this what I would have to look forward to when my daughter Julia turned seventeen in three years?
“God, I hope not,” I said. “Note to self: Become Mennonite and save money for house in the middle of nowhere. I have ten kids. We could learn to farm, right? Get back to Mother Earth, reduce our carbon footprint, and build character all at the same time.”
“Don’t forget the cat,” Emily said.
“Socky. Right,” I said. “He could herd the cows.”
Chapter 25
I WAS COMING out of Chelsea’s room when the phone rang. But it wasn’t the Skinners’ phone. It was mine.
“Mike, hello. How’d you sleep? Well, I hope?”
Son of a bitch! I stopped in midstride, adrenaline jolting through me like live wire. It was him! The sly bastard was calling me instead of the house.
“Fine,” I said, ungluing myself from the carpet and racing downstairs into the study, where we were set up. I found the department tech and pointed excitedly at my phone. He retrieved a handheld voice recorder from a laptop bag and handed it to me. I held it by my phone’s earpiece.
“I’m glad you called back,” I said. “Where are you? Maybe we could talk in person?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But then again, maybe not, Mike. How do you like the Skinners’ place? Exquisite, wouldn’t you say?”
What? He knew I was here? Or was he just guessing? Was he watching the place?
“And that view,” he continued. “The grandeur of the mighty river beneath those austere crags. Truly to die for, if you’ll excuse the term. Thomas Cole himself could hardly have done it justice, wouldn’t you agree? But what am I doing, dropping such names to a policeman? Thomas Cole was a painter, you see. He started the Hudson River School.”
“Was Frederic Edwin Church a Hudson River School guy?” I said, to keep him talking.
“Why, yes, he was, Mike. You know your art history. Where did you go to school?”
The police academy, scumbag, I felt like saying to him.
“Manhattan College,” I said instead.
“Never heard of it,” the kidnapper said.
“Well, it’s pretty small,” I said. “Could we speak to Chelsea? We’re ready to give you what you want if
I wished I could have shared Mrs. Skinner’s startling conviction.
Some PD TARU guys arrived and got up on the Skinners’ wall phones and cell phones. An FBI tech from the New York office showed up as well and installed some e-mail–tracing software, in case our guy decided to switch tactics.
Mrs. Skinner showed us Chelsea’s room on the third floor. It had a huge, sloping beamed ceiling and a little balcony that overlooked the garden and the covered in-ground pool. It was sleek with modern furniture. It looked more like a rich thirty-five-year-old’s room than a teenager’s. Jacob’s room by comparison looked unsophisticated, childish.
There had to be a link between Chelsea and Jacob. They were both only children, both rich. We’d learned that Chelsea attended Fieldston, a nearby expensive private school that was close to Horace Mann, where Jacob had gone to high school. Had they known each other? Maybe there was a teacher who had worked at both places. Was that the connection?
One thing I was sure of, this guy was definitely not picking these kids out of a hat.
After Mrs. Skinner left, Emily pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and got on the kid’s laptop. Chelsea’s home page was her MySpace page.
Over Emily’s shoulder I read parts of Chelsea’s blog. Some of what she was saying was pretty out there. Sexual boastings. Violent fantasies. I was shocked to see that there were some fairly explicit photos of her.
“Is this what kids are up to now?” Emily said.
I shook my head alongside her as a photo of Chelsea with mascara-thick eyelashes leered from the screen. Was this what I would have to look forward to when my daughter Julia turned seventeen in three years?
“God, I hope not,” I said. “Note to self: Become Mennonite and save money for house in the middle of nowhere. I have ten kids. We could learn to farm, right? Get back to Mother Earth, reduce our carbon footprint, and build character all at the same time.”
“Don’t forget the cat,” Emily said.
“Socky. Right,” I said. “He could herd the cows.”
Chapter 25
I WAS COMING out of Chelsea’s room when the phone rang. But it wasn’t the Skinners’ phone. It was mine.
“Mike, hello. How’d you sleep? Well, I hope?”
Son of a bitch! I stopped in midstride, adrenaline jolting through me like live wire. It was him! The sly bastard was calling me instead of the house.
“Fine,” I said, ungluing myself from the carpet and racing downstairs into the study, where we were set up. I found the department tech and pointed excitedly at my phone. He retrieved a handheld voice recorder from a laptop bag and handed it to me. I held it by my phone’s earpiece.
“I’m glad you called back,” I said. “Where are you? Maybe we could talk in person?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But then again, maybe not, Mike. How do you like the Skinners’ place? Exquisite, wouldn’t you say?”
What? He knew I was here? Or was he just guessing? Was he watching the place?
“And that view,” he continued. “The grandeur of the mighty river beneath those austere crags. Truly to die for, if you’ll excuse the term. Thomas Cole himself could hardly have done it justice, wouldn’t you agree? But what am I doing, dropping such names to a policeman? Thomas Cole was a painter, you see. He started the Hudson River School.”
“Was Frederic Edwin Church a Hudson River School guy?” I said, to keep him talking.
“Why, yes, he was, Mike. You know your art history. Where did you go to school?”
The police academy, scumbag, I felt like saying to him.
“Manhattan College,” I said instead.
“Never heard of it,” the kidnapper said.
“Well, it’s pretty small,” I said. “Could we speak to Chelsea? We’re ready to give you what you want if
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