Deadlock Read online

  He shook the screen. “Page! Get away from my family. Call your men off now, you hear?”

  Jim tapped Hutch’s hip. Hutch looked down to see him holding an open cell phone.

  Call them. Of course.

  He reached for the phone.

  Jim pulled it away and shook his head. He mouthed a word: video.

  Hutch glanced again and saw the bedspread showing on the phone’s screen. It was already recording. Jim turned the phone-as-camera in his hand and slowly brought it up, trying to capture the monitor.

  Evidence, Hutch thought. But not as important as alerting Laura to the danger. He had to call, tell her to get everyone out of the house, just get away. He reached for his mobile phone in the pocket of his jacket, then remembered he had given it to Julian.

  The monitor went black. Hutch gave it a shake.

  “What did you do?” Jim said.

  “Nothing,” Hutch said.

  The monitor flicked on again—still peering through the utility room window at Logan.

  Page’s voice said, “In a few minutes, I’m going to ask you to put the monitor back in the bag and set it outside. I’ll need that cell phone as well, Jim. You’ll note the monitor you’re holding is receiving a live feed. It contains no hard drive, no evidence.”

  The person watching Logan shifted. The image jarred slightly. Hutch thought he’d hit the window with the camera. Logan’s response confirmed it. The boy snapped his gaze toward the window. He squinted, as if seeing something, but not sure what. He rose and stepped toward the window.

  The cameraman slowly moved down, making the window appear to rise off the screen. The monitor was dark, then the man turned the camera toward the dining room windows. Back to darkness, the man obviously stood once more, filling the screen with the utility room. Logan was gone.

  The camera returned to the other window. Laura was still in the kitchen. Dillon came in from the living room, looking around. He said something to his mother. She shook her head no.

  Hutch snatched Jim’s phone out of his hand. He watched Dillon open the pantry door and step in. A moment later, he came out. Hutch flipped the phone shut, killing the video. He opened it and dialed his son’s number.

  “That’s unnecessary,” Page said. “They are in no danger—for now. I merely wanted to show you how quickly your life could change. I told you earlier I recognized obsession in you. Irrational determination does not go away simply because somebody suggests that it should. It has to be satisfied or completely defeated. Tell me, Hutch, is this enough to defeat yours?”

  Hutch held the phone to his ear. It started to ring. On the monitor, Laura perked up, hearing the phone. She walked around the counter to her purse, hanging on a dining room chair.

  “Mr. E, respond, please,” Page said.

  It took Hutch a moment to realize Page was addressing one of the soldiers. If that person responded, Hutch was not privy to that side of the conversation.

  Page said, “Can we get some sound from your end?”

  An icon of a speaker appeared in a corner of the monitor. “We’re on,” a different voice said. The sound of breathing also came through.

  Through the window, Laura pulled back the chair. The muffled screech of its legs on the hardwood floor emanated from the monitor’s speakers. She set her purse on the table and sat to rummage through it.

  In Hutch’s ear, the far-off phone rang. A second later he heard the jangling melody that Logan had set for his father’s incoming calls. The glass quieted, but did not silence, the sound. Laura extracted the phone, opened it, and lifted it to her face.

  “Hello?” Her voice echoed out of the monitor’s speaker as well.

  “Laura,” Hutch said. “Listen to me. You have to—”

  He heard a short tone. Simultaneously, an icon appeared on the screen: a blue radio tower with a red circle and diagonal line superimposed over it.

  “Hello?” he said. “Laura!”

  On the monitor, Laura said, “Hello? Hutch? Hello?” She gazed at the phone, her eyebrows crinkled. She held it up again: “Hello?”

  “Page, what have you done?” Hutch said. “Stop this. Stop it now.”

  “I will, if you will.” Page’s voice was loud over the cameraman’s breathing and Laura’s continued inquiries into the phone.

  Hutch ground his molars together. He had expected more threats from Page. And he had imagined himself telling the billionaire to go to hell. He had thought, maybe, just maybe, Page would imply violence toward Hutch’s family. But he had believed the threats would escalate to that, not start there. And he never imagined more than a verbal threat. He never imagined this.

  “How do I know if I—” Hutch began, then stopped.

  Logan’s clear voice came through the speaker: “Hey! What are you doing?”

  The camera swung around, and Logan’s face filled the screen. He scowled into it. His eyes were wide with fear, but his brazen Logan-ness kept his mouth in gear. “This is private property. You’re a Peeping Tom. I’m going to call the cops.”

  Hutch stood up. “Logan! Page, that’s my son. Don’t you—”

  The camera moved in on him. A gloved hand came into view, grabbing at Logan’s head, seizing a handful of hair. Logan tried to duck and pull away, but he only thrashed futilely.

  Page said, “Stand down.” Rustling, bumping noises. Page again: “Ian, go off-line!”

  Logan screamed.

  “Page!” Hutch said.

  A burst of snow filled the screen, then it went black.

  The phone fell out of Laura’s hand.

  “Hey! What was that?” she yelled. “Guys?”

  Parents quickly learn the difference between screams that mean You found me or You’re driving me crazy and screams of pain or fear. What she had heard was not the playful kind.

  “Guys! Dillon! Logan! Macie! Come here, now!”

  Footsteps pounded toward her. She didn’t wait to see who they belonged to. She moved toward the utility room and garage—the direction from which the scream had come . . . she thought. Something banged against the window on the other side of the table. She ran to it and looked out. A shadowy figure—a man—was hurrying away. She saw blue jeans, kicking legs, tennis shoes. The man was carrying away a child. She pounded on the glass with her palm.

  “Hey! Hey! Stop!”

  Behind her, footsteps approached and stopped.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Dillon said.

  Outside, the figure rounded a corner. The sneakered feet went up and down, up and down, then were gone.

  Ian was leaning over the control console, scanning the monitors. His hand hovered above the communication button.

  Page leaned closer and pushed Ian back into his chair. He shook his head and reached for the comm button.

  Ian grabbed his wrist. “What are you going to do?” Ian said, his eyes wide.

  “I’m going to finish it,” Page said, his voice as brittle as bones.

  “That’s not the plan. We don’t have to—”

  “You don’t know Hutch,” Page said. “We just crossed a line. This is never going to end unless we end it here, now.”

  The men stared into each other’s eyes. Page wondered if Ian could read more than the message he wanted to convey—that he was right, that this was the only way to handle a man like Hutch—and saw a deeper motivation—simply, that Page wanted this: the most definitive solution. He wanted the blood. Ian’s facial muscles relaxed. He sighed and released his grip.

  Page whispered, “Our necks are too stiff to spend the day looking over our shoulder.” He punched the button that opened a channel to his soldiers. The order came out loud and sharp, a verbal gunshot. “Take ’em out,” he said. “Kill them all.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Page!” Hutch yelled at the monitor. “Page!”

  “What happened?” Jim said.

  “My son. They took my son!” Hutch shook the monitor. He wanted to hurl it into a wall, but what if it came back onlin
e? He stood it up, on top of the room’s television.

  “What happened to the monitor?” Jim said.

  “Shut up,” Hutch said, trying to think. “Please.” On the mobile phone, he pushed the redial button. He waited for a ring . . . and waited. He let out a frustrated yell. He disconnected and dialed his own telephone number at home. Same thing: dead air. He disconnected again and punched in 9-1-1.

  It’s okay. It’s okay. Page said they weren’t in danger. He just wants to scare me. That’s all.

  What had happened, however, did not appear planned. Logan had startled one of Page’s men, and the man had reacted. Page’s last few words had sounded surprised, as unsure of the situation as Hutch was. So what was happening now? What were his men doing at his house? Running? Killing? No, no, no, not that!

  He took a deep breath, then another. He opened his eyes. The monitor stared at him with its dead black screen. He jerked the phone away from his face. He’d forgotten to hit the send button. He punched it now.

  “9-1-1 operator. What’s your—” Then that low tone he’d heard earlier.

  “Hello?” Hutch said. He looked at the phone, it read: CALL LOST. The no-service indicator appeared.

  “No!” He threw the phone at the door. It snapped in two and shot in different directions.

  “Hey!” Jim said.

  Hutch pushed past him and picked up the phone on the nightstand. No dial tone. He punched the 0. Nothing. The disconnect button, then 9. Nothing. He dropped the handset. It banged against the table and toppled off.

  Jim said, “I saw a pay phone outside the office.” He rushed to the door and opened it.

  If they were jamming Jim’s phone the way they had Laura’s, they must be close. He remembered the man he had seen in the woods.

  “Wait!” he yelled.

  Jim paused on his way out, giving Hutch enough time to reach him. He grabbed the man’s collar and yanked him back in. As they fell, three holes appeared in the opening door. Thunk-thunk-thunk.

  Hutch scrambled to his knees and reached for the door. Two men were coming through the parking lot. They were dressed in black with the same black helmets he had seen on the monitor. One of them stopped. He snapped his weapon up to his shoulder, taking aim.

  Hutch slammed the door. Three more holes appeared in it, spraying splinters and sawdust into the room.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Where’s Logan? Where’s Macie?” Laura yelled at Dillon.

  “We were playing,” Dillon said.

  She knew her panicked behavior was scaring him. Good.

  “Logan!” she called again. “Macie!”

  Without a sound, Macie appeared in the living room entranceway.

  “What?” the little girl said.

  “Where’s your brother? Where’s Logan?”

  Macie’s mouth dropped open, but nothing came out.

  “Come here, come here.” Laura beckoned them to her. She turned to peer out the window at the place where she had last seen the kicking child. It had been Logan, she knew now. Someone had taken Logan.

  Something crashed in the garage. Macie screamed. They were no more than ten feet from the utility room door, and it was through that room that you accessed the garage from the house.

  “Lock the door,” Dillon said.

  “What if it’s Logan?” Macie said.

  Laura had an image of the boy stumbling through the garage, bleeding, scared out of his mind.

  Dillon raced past them. Laura grabbed him, but he pulled away.

  “Dillon!” Laura was afraid he was going to open the garage door to see who was there—and equally afraid that he wouldn’t, and would lock Logan out of the house. “Stay here,” she told Macie and ran for her son.

  She reached him as he was bolting the interior garage door. He’d had no time to look into the garage. She pulled back on his shoulders, turned him, and shoved him out of the utility room. She looked at the locked door, bit her lip, trying to decide what to—

  Bullets ripped through the door. She fell back onto the floor. The deadbolt rattled, but did not fall away. Someone kicked at the door.

  It held.

  She scampered on all fours into the eating area, grabbed the corner of the table, and stood. She held her finger to her lips and told the kids, “Shhh.”

  Behind her, the door splintered and bullets slammed into the wall on the opposite side of the utility room. Metal clanged against the tile floor—the dead bolt. She pointed into the living room. “Go,” she whispered. “Go.”

  Dillon didn’t hesitate. He turned, grabbed Macie by the arm, and ran—through the living room and into the entry hall, where he stopped. Right, into the office; left, down a hall to the bedrooms; or straight, through the front door? Laura watched him hesitate.

  “Straight!” she said. “We gotta get out of here.”

  Dillon started for the door. Macie screamed. A man stood on the other side of one of the glass windows that flanked the door. He put his booted foot through the glass, then elbowed it. Next, his helmeted head came through.

  “This way! This way!” Laura said, pointing toward the bedrooms.

  Dillon ran, tugging on Macie’s arm. The little girl’s feet slipped out from under her. Dillon stopped to help.

  Lifting Macie, Laura said, “Keep going, Dillon! Go!”

  The man at the front door had come through the window. Glass fell from his helmet and shoulders to the floor tiles. He was steps away from them.

  Macie got her feet under her, and Laura pushed on the girl’s back, urging her to hurry. A hand clasped Laura’s shoulder. She ducked down, slipped away. The hand grabbed her hair. Another hand, her arm.

  “Run, Macie!” she said.

  The hallway was long. Dillon had already disappeared into one of the bedrooms.

  Laura kicked back at her attacker. Her heel struck something hard and inflexible. She realized the man was wearing shin guards. He probably had some kind of body armor protecting all the vulnerable points at which Tom had taught her to strike. She swung her elbow up and back, going for his head. She knew he wore a helmet, but thought a blow in just the right place would be jarring just the same. All she needed was for him to release his grasp for a few seconds. If she could face him, she would know where to land her kicks and punches.

  Just slow him down, she thought. Give Dillon a chance to get out with Macie. If her attacker made a mistake, gave her the slightest chance to put him down, then maybe she, too, could get out of the house alive.

  Her hope faded when the man released her hair and encircled her neck with his arm. She felt her windpipe crushing under his muscles. He released her arm, allowing her to grip his forearm at the front of her neck. As she had expected, it was sheathed in a hard case. She couldn’t get a grip on it, let alone pry it away. His left arm came up and then back to his right hand. He used his left arm to leverage his right against her neck.

  In his left fist he held a large knife. She could see her own eyes, wide and wet, reflected in the blade.

  Her lungs screamed for air. They pulled and pulled in vain, like a bellows whose nozzle had been crimped shut. She reached over her shoulder, hoping to find her attacker’s hair or ear. Her sweaty fingers slipped over the plastic helmet. She could find nothing to grip, and she realized it didn’t matter anyway. Her strength was coming out of her muscles. Her vision dimmed. She no longer cared about drawing a breath. She wanted only to let go, to take the plunge and feel the relief from pain and fear.

  She heard a voice calling. It was a beautiful sound.

  Panic found her again as she realized it was Dillon.

  “Mom!” he yelled.

  “No, Dillon, run,” she tried to say, but nothing came out.

  Don’t be here for this, she thought. Not for this or what they’ll do afterward, what they’ll do to you.

  More than the pain in her lungs, more than her own fading away, the most horrifying thing was knowing he was still there, still screaming.

  “Mom!�
��

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Who’s that?” Jim said. “Outside?”

  “You have to ask?” Hutch said, tugging on the man’s arm. “Let’s go. Come on. There’s a window in the bathroom.”

  Jim got up, stumbled forward as Hutch pushed him. “Wait, wait,” he said. “Somebody’s bound to call the cops. If we can just hold out . . .”

  “Are you kidding?” Hutch pushed him a step closer to the bathroom. “Those guys will be in here in seconds. Besides, our room phone is out, which means they probably cut all the lines to the motel. They’re using some sort of jamming device on the cell phones. Help’s not coming.”

  “But why?” Jim said. “Page said no one was going to get hurt. He wanted to scare us. What was that, just a ruse?”

  “I don’t think so. Something went wrong. My son walked up to one of Page’s men, and the guy . . . I don’t know, freaked out or something. I think everything Page had in mind went out the window. Now he’s trying to clean it all up.”

  Hutch remembered Andrew Norton’s words to Declan: No witnesses. He had been Page’s best friend, as close as a brother, according to Julian.

  Hutch had always suspected that the evil he had witnessed in Canada was encouraged and funded by Brendan Page. Maybe Page had truly intended to scare Hutch away. But as soon as there was a glitch, Page’s knee-jerk reaction was to kill. It was the way he lived and the way he thought.

  The window beside the door shattered, and kept shattering as bullets tore into the remaining glass and the falling shards. Hutch looked back to see the curtains billowing out, ripping to shreds.

  Jim dropped to his hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way to the bathroom. Hutch stepped over him and was reaching for the bathroom window when a shadow fell across it. He clamped his hand over Jim’s mouth just as the pebbled privacy glass shattered inward. Jim’s startled scream was no louder than a hiccup and lost among the cacophony of falling glass.