“Why not?”
“Because that would be one, maybe two, direct messages. These were more like twenty or thirty. That bastard.”
“Okay, listen to me, Brandon. Did you get the names of the two women?”
“Yes.”
“Could you give them to me?”
“One is named Julie Weitz. She lives in Washington, DC. The other lives in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. Her name is Martha Paquet.”
• • •
The first thing Kat did was call Chaz.
He would contact both women and make sure they hadn’t gone away with their online paramour. But as Kat made her way toward her car—she was going back to that house in Montauk and she’d kick the old man in the balls if he didn’t talk to her—something started bothering her again. It had started to nag her early on, from the beginning of all this, really, but she still couldn’t see what it was.
Something was making her hang on to Jeff.
Most would have said that it was the blinding potency of a foolish heart. Kat would have agreed. But now Kat was maybe getting a little clarity on the situation. The thing that had been bothering Kat involved her own messages with Jeff on YouAreJust MyType.com.
She kept going over his words, replaying the ending so many times in her head—all that crap about protecting himself and being cautious and going back to the past would be a mistake and him needing a fresh start—that she hadn’t really gone over their earliest communications.
It had all started when she sent him that old music video of John Waite singing “Missing You.”
And how had he responded?
He hadn’t remembered it.
How could that be? Okay, maybe she had stronger feelings than he did, but he had, after all, proposed. How could he forget something that was so crucial to their relationship?
More than that, Jeff had written that the video was “cute” and that he liked a girl with “a sense of humor” and that he was “drawn” to her photograph. Drawn. Gag. She had been so hurt and surprised, and so she had messaged him and said . . .
It’s Kat.
There was a thin man in a dark suit leaning against the yellow Ferrari. He had his arms folded across his chest, his legs crossed near the ankles. Still reeling with the revelations, Kat staggered toward him and said, “May I help you?”
“Nice car.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot. You mind getting off it?”
“In a second, sure. If you’re ready.”
“What?”
The silver Mercedes pulled up next to her.
“Get in the back,” the man said.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You have a choice. We can shoot you here in the street. Or you can get in and we can have a nice little chat.”
Chapter 32
Reynaldo got the message via the walkie-talkie feature on his smartphone.
“Base to box,” Titus said. “Come in.”
Reynaldo had been tossing a tennis ball with his Labrador retriever, Bo. Bo lived up to his breed, constantly wanting to play fetch, never ever tiring of the game, no matter how many times or how far Reynaldo threw the tennis ball.
“I’m here,” Reynaldo said into the phone, throwing the ball yet again. Bo ran-hobbled after it. Age. Bo was, according to a vet, eleven years old. He was still in good shape, but it made Reynaldo sad to see the sprint slowing to a lumber. Still, Bo wanted to play, always, almost stubbornly insisting on more throws when it was clear that his stamina and arthritis couldn’t really handle it. Sometimes Reynaldo tried to stop, for the sake of old Bo, but it was as though Bo could see what his master was trying to do and didn’t like it. Bo would whine and bark until Reynaldo picked up the ball and threw it yet again.
Eventually, Reynaldo would send Bo up the path so he could rest on the soft dog bed in the barn. Reynaldo had bought that bed after he found Bo wandering along the East River. The bed had held up well.
Bo looked up at him expectantly. Reynaldo rubbed behind Bo’s ear as Titus via the walkie-talkie said, “Escort Number Six up.”
“Roger that.”
They never used the phones or texts at the farm, just the walkie-talkie app. Untraceable. They never used names for obvious reasons, but Reynaldo didn’t know the names anyway. They were all numbers to him, corresponding with their location: Number Six, a blond woman who had arrived in a yellow sundress, was in Box Six.
Even Titus would admit that this sort of security was overkill, but it was always better to err on the side of too much caution. That was his creed.
When Reynaldo rose, Bo stared up at him, disappointed. “We’ll play again soon, boy. I promise.”
The dog gave a small whimper and nudged Reynaldo’s hand. Reynaldo smiled and petted Bo. The dog’s tail wagged slowly in appreciation. Reynaldo felt his eyes well up.
“Go get dinner, boy.”
Bo looked both disappointed and understanding. He hesitated for another moment and then started trotting up the path. The tail did not wag. Reynaldo waited until Bo was out of sight. For some reason, he didn’t want Bo to see inside the boxes. He could smell them, of course, knew what was inside, but when the targets saw Bo, when they sometimes even smiled at the friendly dog, it just . . . it just felt wrong to Reynaldo.
His key chain dangled from his belt. Reynaldo found the proper key, unlocked the padlock, and pulled up the door from the ground. The sudden light always made the targets blink or shield their eyes. Even at night. Even if there was just a sliver of moon. The box was complete and utter darkness. Any illumination, even the slightest from a distant star, hit them like an assault.
“Get out,” he said.
The woman groaned. Her lips were cracked. The lines on her face had darkened and deepened, as though the dirt had burrowed into every facial crevice. The stench of her body waste wafted up toward him. Reynaldo was used to that. Some of them tried to hold it in at first, but when you go days in the darkness, lying in what was essentially a coffin, the choice was taken away.
It took Number Six a full minute to sit up. She tried to lick her lips, but her tongue must have been like sandpaper. He tried to remember the last time he had given her a drink. Hours now. He had already dropped the cup of white rice down the mailbox-type slot in the door. That was how he fed them—through the slot in the door. Sometimes, the targets tried to stick their hands through the slot. He gave them one warning not to do that. If they tried it again, Reynaldo crushed the fingers with his boot.
Number Six began to cry.
“Hurry,” he said.
“Because that would be one, maybe two, direct messages. These were more like twenty or thirty. That bastard.”
“Okay, listen to me, Brandon. Did you get the names of the two women?”
“Yes.”
“Could you give them to me?”
“One is named Julie Weitz. She lives in Washington, DC. The other lives in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. Her name is Martha Paquet.”
• • •
The first thing Kat did was call Chaz.
He would contact both women and make sure they hadn’t gone away with their online paramour. But as Kat made her way toward her car—she was going back to that house in Montauk and she’d kick the old man in the balls if he didn’t talk to her—something started bothering her again. It had started to nag her early on, from the beginning of all this, really, but she still couldn’t see what it was.
Something was making her hang on to Jeff.
Most would have said that it was the blinding potency of a foolish heart. Kat would have agreed. But now Kat was maybe getting a little clarity on the situation. The thing that had been bothering Kat involved her own messages with Jeff on YouAreJust MyType.com.
She kept going over his words, replaying the ending so many times in her head—all that crap about protecting himself and being cautious and going back to the past would be a mistake and him needing a fresh start—that she hadn’t really gone over their earliest communications.
It had all started when she sent him that old music video of John Waite singing “Missing You.”
And how had he responded?
He hadn’t remembered it.
How could that be? Okay, maybe she had stronger feelings than he did, but he had, after all, proposed. How could he forget something that was so crucial to their relationship?
More than that, Jeff had written that the video was “cute” and that he liked a girl with “a sense of humor” and that he was “drawn” to her photograph. Drawn. Gag. She had been so hurt and surprised, and so she had messaged him and said . . .
It’s Kat.
There was a thin man in a dark suit leaning against the yellow Ferrari. He had his arms folded across his chest, his legs crossed near the ankles. Still reeling with the revelations, Kat staggered toward him and said, “May I help you?”
“Nice car.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot. You mind getting off it?”
“In a second, sure. If you’re ready.”
“What?”
The silver Mercedes pulled up next to her.
“Get in the back,” the man said.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You have a choice. We can shoot you here in the street. Or you can get in and we can have a nice little chat.”
Chapter 32
Reynaldo got the message via the walkie-talkie feature on his smartphone.
“Base to box,” Titus said. “Come in.”
Reynaldo had been tossing a tennis ball with his Labrador retriever, Bo. Bo lived up to his breed, constantly wanting to play fetch, never ever tiring of the game, no matter how many times or how far Reynaldo threw the tennis ball.
“I’m here,” Reynaldo said into the phone, throwing the ball yet again. Bo ran-hobbled after it. Age. Bo was, according to a vet, eleven years old. He was still in good shape, but it made Reynaldo sad to see the sprint slowing to a lumber. Still, Bo wanted to play, always, almost stubbornly insisting on more throws when it was clear that his stamina and arthritis couldn’t really handle it. Sometimes Reynaldo tried to stop, for the sake of old Bo, but it was as though Bo could see what his master was trying to do and didn’t like it. Bo would whine and bark until Reynaldo picked up the ball and threw it yet again.
Eventually, Reynaldo would send Bo up the path so he could rest on the soft dog bed in the barn. Reynaldo had bought that bed after he found Bo wandering along the East River. The bed had held up well.
Bo looked up at him expectantly. Reynaldo rubbed behind Bo’s ear as Titus via the walkie-talkie said, “Escort Number Six up.”
“Roger that.”
They never used the phones or texts at the farm, just the walkie-talkie app. Untraceable. They never used names for obvious reasons, but Reynaldo didn’t know the names anyway. They were all numbers to him, corresponding with their location: Number Six, a blond woman who had arrived in a yellow sundress, was in Box Six.
Even Titus would admit that this sort of security was overkill, but it was always better to err on the side of too much caution. That was his creed.
When Reynaldo rose, Bo stared up at him, disappointed. “We’ll play again soon, boy. I promise.”
The dog gave a small whimper and nudged Reynaldo’s hand. Reynaldo smiled and petted Bo. The dog’s tail wagged slowly in appreciation. Reynaldo felt his eyes well up.
“Go get dinner, boy.”
Bo looked both disappointed and understanding. He hesitated for another moment and then started trotting up the path. The tail did not wag. Reynaldo waited until Bo was out of sight. For some reason, he didn’t want Bo to see inside the boxes. He could smell them, of course, knew what was inside, but when the targets saw Bo, when they sometimes even smiled at the friendly dog, it just . . . it just felt wrong to Reynaldo.
His key chain dangled from his belt. Reynaldo found the proper key, unlocked the padlock, and pulled up the door from the ground. The sudden light always made the targets blink or shield their eyes. Even at night. Even if there was just a sliver of moon. The box was complete and utter darkness. Any illumination, even the slightest from a distant star, hit them like an assault.
“Get out,” he said.
The woman groaned. Her lips were cracked. The lines on her face had darkened and deepened, as though the dirt had burrowed into every facial crevice. The stench of her body waste wafted up toward him. Reynaldo was used to that. Some of them tried to hold it in at first, but when you go days in the darkness, lying in what was essentially a coffin, the choice was taken away.
It took Number Six a full minute to sit up. She tried to lick her lips, but her tongue must have been like sandpaper. He tried to remember the last time he had given her a drink. Hours now. He had already dropped the cup of white rice down the mailbox-type slot in the door. That was how he fed them—through the slot in the door. Sometimes, the targets tried to stick their hands through the slot. He gave them one warning not to do that. If they tried it again, Reynaldo crushed the fingers with his boot.
Number Six began to cry.
“Hurry,” he said.
