Deadlock Read online

  Hutch brought the van to a stop. He stared out the windshield, dazed. “Just ‘they took Logan’?”

  “That’s the way she said it. Hutch, I’m so sorry.”

  Behind him, a car honked. Slowly, he took his foot off the brake and let the van roll forward. The car honked again. He waved for the driver to go around.

  Larry said, “When you talked to the cops, they didn’t say anything? They don’t know?”

  “If they do, they didn’t tell me.”

  “You have to tell them.”

  “No,” Hutch said. “I can’t get pulled into that right now. I’ve got to make sure the others are safe. Then I’ll figure out what to do.”

  “What to do is go to the cops.” Larry’s voice was shrill, shaky. “This is a kidnapping. They know how to handle it. The FBI.”

  “Larry, I can’t.”

  “I can. Let me call them, get them on this.”

  “Listen,” Hutch said, “I know Page. If he thinks the feds are moving in on him for anything, he’ll get rid of all the evidence. You hear what I’m saying? He’ll kill Logan.” He realized he was squeezing the phone tight enough to break it. He eased up. Instead, he crushed his teeth together. He closed his eyes. No tears. No time for that now.

  “You’re sure it’s Page?”

  “I’m sure. He has the resources to make this whole thing go away, you know he does.”

  “Make it go away as far as the law is concerned, you mean.”

  “I’m not the law,” Hutch said. “I can do things they can’t. But not if they’re all over me, not if they detain me. I need to be free to move.”

  “Since you didn’t know about Logan, that means Page hasn’t contacted you. You need to call him.”

  “I did. He wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. What is he doing?”

  Another vehicle pulled up behind him and honked. Hutch applied some gas. He turned into a stall. He said, “He might still be trying to scare me, but I think he knows it’s gone beyond that.”

  “What do you mean, gone beyond that? That you won’t let it go? But you will, Hutch. For your son, you will.”

  “Yeah, I would. But I don’t believe he thinks that. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s just waiting until he gets an exchange arranged.”

  “You’re thinking he’s going to set you up?”

  “Or get to me without having to risk my getting close to Logan. Or him.”

  “Kill you now? But he’s got your son!”

  “You have to know the way the guy thinks.”

  Larry didn’t say anything. Finally, he said, “If you’re right, you have to bring the feds in on this. Don’t go it alone.”

  “Larry, if he gets me, then you can call the FBI, okay? It won’t matter then.”

  “Hutch, this is . . . this is . . .”

  “A little scarier than Matt Damon’s latest?”

  “You’re joking? How can you joke? But as a matter of fact, it is. So what are you going to do, stroll into the airport and catch a flight home? You can’t do that.”

  “I have no choice. I’ll be on the lookout, but I have to trust that he won’t do anything here. Maybe he hasn’t had time.”

  “He’s a billionaire. Time doesn’t work the same way for people like that.”

  “He’s human. Sort of. So are the people he hires. You can’t buy godlike powers.”

  “Tell that to a billionaire.”

  Hutch sighed. “When I get there, I’ll play it smart. Right now, I’m on a blitz.”

  Larry paused. “What can I do?”

  “Go back to your office. Wait by the phone. When she calls, tell her you have to call her back from a pay phone. When you get her again, give her my number. In case she can’t reach me, tell her I’ll meet her where we had lunch yesterday.”

  “Hutch, I want to help,” Larry said. “There must be something else I can do?”

  “Yeah. Pray.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  “Do you like my dad?”

  Laura glanced over at Macie, sitting in the passenger seat. They had skirted the north side of Denver on I-70 and were quickly approaching the airport. Laura had no way of knowing when Hutch would be coming in. She assumed he’d find a way back from Seattle before his scheduled flight tomorrow. She’d called his mobile phone three times so far, with no luck. Had to be he’d lost it. It was about midnight. No way he could have arrived yet, but she’d rather play it safe. If she missed him at the airport, she had no idea what to do next.

  She said, “’Course I do, sweetie.”

  “I mean do you like him?” She showed Laura a sly grin.

  It was nice to see her smiling. Most of the ride down from the mountains, she’d moped and asked about Logan: Why did they take him? Do you think he’s okay? Are they feeding him? Can he go to the bathroom?

  To this last question, Laura had made a scary face and said, “I hope so, don’t you? Either that or get him a diaper.”

  Macie had almost laughed then. Almost.

  “Well . . .” Laura thought about it. Certainly Hutch occupied a special place in her heart, more than what her dad used to call a “drinking buddy”—meaning a friend you can laugh with, but not count on. She suspected some of her feelings stemmed from Hutch’s having taken care of Dillon when she wasn’t able to; from Dillon’s strong love for him; for the traumatic experience all of them had shared. But then there were the hours on the phone during the first few months after he’d returned home. She shook her head—she couldn’t think that way! Her life with Tom was still too fresh in her memory for her to allow anybody else in.

  She continued: “I do care for him, and it feels like I know him really well. But you know, we haven’t spent that much time together. It’s hard to like somebody that way, just chatting on the phone.”

  “I think he likes you that way,” Macie said.

  “Really?”

  They drove on for a while. A sign instructed airport-bound vehicles to use the left lanes and exit on Pena Boulevard. She signaled and drifted over.

  “You know where you’re going?” Macie asked.

  “Just following the signs.”

  “In the airport. Do you know how to find him? My mom and Logan and me used to come get him sometimes when he came back from trips. You can’t go to the gate anymore, you know. I don’t remember ever going to the gate, but Mom said you used to be able to. Now you have to wait where the trains drop off all the passengers from all the flights, at the top of the escalators. I don’t like it.”

  “Why not?”

  The child should have been exhausted, but she seemed to be perking up. Laura thought her talking was a good sign, the way being hungry was after a bout of the flu.

  “Too many people waiting and too many people coming from the trains. We missed him a couple times. But that was when he wasn’t expecting us, and we wanted to surprise him. He’s going to be mad about the windshield.”

  “I think he’ll understand.” A warmth went from Laura’s stomach up into her chest, and she recognized it as happiness—or at least anticipation—at the prospect of reuniting with Hutch. They passed signs listing airlines and on which side of the airport each was located, east or west.

  Macie said, “Do you know what, uh, plane company . . . ?”

  “Airline? No,” Laura said. “He’s not going to be easy to find.”

  “You can call him on the, you know, speaker.” Macie pointed at the ceiling.

  “Page him?” Laura said, impressed. “That’s a good idea. But since we don’t know when he’s going to come in, that might mean making a lot of calls to the people who do the paging. And who knows, maybe after a while they’ll say we can’t page anymore.”

  Macie frowned and nodded. “Then how?”

  “I’ve been thinking. What if we find his car? We know what it looks like, and we have some time. We can go up and down all the aisles until—”

  “Turn here!” Macie yelled, pointing.

&
nbsp; Her excited voice was a poke at Laura’s adrenal gland. Her heart kicked into overdrive and she slammed on the brakes. The SUV skidded, tires smoking. She heard and felt Dillon fly off the rear bench into hers and Macie’s seat backs. A second later, she released the brake and eased to the side of the road.

  “Dillon, are you all right?” She snapped off her seat belt and spun around.

  Dillon moaned. He appeared in the space between the seats, holding his forehead. “What happened?”

  “I’m sorry,” Laura said. “I got a little startled.” She turned to Macie. “What is it?”

  The girl smiled guiltily. “You said we needed to find his car.” She pointed at a sign indicating an off-airport parking and shuttle service. The lot itself was beyond a hill, out of sight. “He always parks over there.”

  “But, honey,” Laura said, “the airport is still miles away.”

  “He says it’s easier to get in and out, and it’s cheaper. When we went to Disney World and to Connecticut to see Grandma, that’s where we parked.”

  Laura smiled. She patted Macie on the knee. “Good job, Macie. You just saved us hours.”

  “Yeah, good job, Macie,” Dillon said, giving her an exaggerated scowl. He was still rubbing his head.

  Macie stifled a laugh. “Sorry.”

  “Really, Dillon,” Laura said. “How’s your head? Anything else hurt?”

  “I’m all right.” He climbed back onto the bench, sitting this time. He started to massage his knee. “I was dreaming.”

  “Something nice?”

  He frowned, shook his head.

  “Then good thing you woke up!” Macie said.

  Leave it to an eight-year-old girl.

  Dillon thought of something. He turned in his seat and rose onto his knees. Looking back into the cargo area, he said, “Michael’s still sleeping. Maybe you hit him too hard.”

  “Is he breathing?” Laura said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Put your seat belt on.” She steered the XTerra into the parking lot’s entrance. She took a stub, rolled forward, looked around. She said, “It’s huge. Is there any place your dad liked to park, someplace special?”

  Macie shrugged.

  Rows of cars marched away from them in both directions. They were idling in a road that ran perpendicular to the rows of cars. A bus emerged from an aisle onto this road and headed for them. Laura pulled ahead farther, into the aisle that was straight ahead of them. The bus roared past their rear bumper. She watched it go to a far corner and turn out toward the busy street that serviced the airport.

  “The exit must be over there,” she said, more to herself than the kids. She clapped her hands. “Okay, Macie, Dillon, I need your help. We’re looking for a Honda Civic.”

  “Accord,” Macie said. “2001 LX. Silver.”

  Laura said, “Guys, I know it’s dark and they don’t have enough lights . . . some though, right? Enough to kind of see all the cars.”

  “The shapes of them,” Dillon said.

  “Just keep your eyes out for a silver Honda. A four-door. We can do this.”

  “I can’t tell what’s silver,” Dillon said. “Is that one silver?”

  She looked at the car he meant. “Yeah . . . or gold, maybe brown.”

  “Looks yellow to me,” Macie said.

  Laura let out a tired breath. “If I see the kind of car he drives, I’ll point it out, then you can look for ones like it. Think that’ll work?”

  “You can look for a flip-flop in the window,” Macie said.

  “A what?” Dillon said.

  “A flip-flop, like you wear to the beach. It’s pink and white, but I don’t think we’d see that.”

  “Why is there a flip-flop in the window, sweetie?” Laura asked.

  “There’s a lot of cars that look like Dad’s at my school. Dad put the flip-flop right here, so we can find him easier in the carpool lane.” She stretched out against the seat belt and touched the top part of the dash by the corner of the windshield. “Before, we had to look in all the cars that looked like his. Logan said it was stupid.”

  “The flip-flop?” Dillon asked.

  “No, looking in all the cars. He likes the flip-flop. He told Mom about it, and she put a little teddy bear in her window.”

  “Smart,” Laura said. “So look for the flip-flop.”

  “Except when it’s not there,” Macie said. “Sometimes he takes it down when he’s not coming to school.”

  Dillon flopped back in his seat, lifting his hands, like So much for that!

  “All right,” Laura said. She reminded them what they were looking for: a silver car that may look gold or brown or yellow. A four-door Honda Accord, which may or may not have a flip-flop on the dash.

  “Got it,” Dillon said. “Start driving, already.”

  Laura said, “Let’s start on the far end over there and work our way toward the exit.” She backed into the perpendicular lane and headed for the farthest aisle.

  THIRTY-NINE

  At O’Hare, Hutch let his guard down a bit. He was still keyed up over Logan’s kidnapping—probably more so, now that he’d had three hours on a plane to stew. But he couldn’t imagine Page’s men figuring out the exact flight he’d taken, not this soon.

  He hadn’t considered it before, but Janet purchasing the ticket for him might have been a wise strategy. Even before the divorce was final, she had legally readopted her maiden name, Brooks. The chances were high that Page had access to credit card databases, but not to airport systems, because of tightened homeland security rules. Hutch didn’t think financial transaction records listed specifics like flight times; but if they did, Page wouldn’t find Hutch, except on a flight leaving Seattle the next day.

  He found his connecting gate and paced among the chairs. He sat, then immediately stood again. He imagined how different things would be if he had picked up Page’s lacquered cigar box in his office and brained him with it. The clarity of hindsight could drive you crazy.

  He pulled out the phone, dialed Larry. He was there, at his office desk. Laura hadn’t called again. Larry wanted to talk. Hutch didn’t. He slipped the phone back in his pocket.

  He forced himself to sit, slumping low. He thought about Logan, what he was going through at that moment. He wished with bone-aching sincerity that Larry had misunderstood Laura’s words. He knew Larry had got it right, but for a few seconds, it was a balm on his nerves to think of his son asleep in bed.

  Since his children were babies, Hutch would go into their rooms at night, when they were in deep slumber. He would brush their hair with his fingers and gently sing a lullaby. Every night they had been in his house, without fail, he had performed this ritual.

  By lying about his parenting behavior—and thanks to his own unfortunate outburst in court—Janet had secured sole custody of Logan and Macie for more than ten months. During that time, Hutch had sung to his children alone before sleep. More than anything else Janet had done—more than the affair, the lying, the snippiness, the sapping of his bank account—more than any of it, he hated her for taking his kids away.

  And yet, since winning joint custody nine months ago, he’d spent more time “with” Page than he had with his kids. He had mapped Page’s suspected misdeeds, interviewed people with bad things to say about the man, and dug through public records, looking for Page Industries improprieties. All of these had extended long after what some people called “normal working hours.” He’d chosen to spend his time this way, rather than taking Macie and Logan bowling; rather than battling the evil Xbox villain, Dytar, with his boy; rather than playing with his little girl in her room and finding out why she preferred Matchbox cars to Barbie dolls.

  Crashed now in the plastic airport chair, he lolled his head back as far as it would go. He did not hate himself for misallocating time. What he felt was worse: a deep disappointment. Not only had his preoccupation deprived Macie and Logan of his time, surely making them wonder why he’d fought for custody at all, but it had
directly resulted in Logan’s kidnapping. And in the possibility that the harm to them would not be limited to a traumatic experience for his son.

  Harm. Traumatic experience. He was a writer, quick with a soft-pedaling euphemism and an editor’s pen, even with his own thoughts. What he meant was that his insane obsession could result in the deaths of his children. As well as Laura and Dillon.

  Even his lullaby ritual had become a sham. Tired from hunting Page, his mind not on his children, he had mumbled the songs and often ended early. His caress had gone from stroking their hair to touching their foreheads. What once might have taken ten minutes he had reduced to a thirty-second how-do-you-do.

  His head came up. He blinked. Still no tears. He was more disgusted with himself than sad for his children.

  Isn’t that the problem? he thought. More you than them.

  He thought of some names he had called people over the years, and applied them all to himself.

  I’m working on it. I am.

  Really? What are you doing?

  He lowered his face to his palms. He had caused this. He had gone on a safari and wounded a lion. The beast had circled around to his camp and attacked his children. He had to make it right. Whatever it took. He would give Page what he wanted: every scrap of paper he had accumulated about the man, every note, digital file, phone number.

  If it would get his son back, he’d lie prostrate on the floor of Page’s office and beg, weep, promise anything. If he never heard Page’s name again, he’d not miss a thing. Page had won. He’d struck at Hutch’s heel and hit his heart.

  He pulled out the mobile phone and dialed Page’s number. The operator put him on hold. Page’s assistant came on.

  “This is Mrs.—”

  “Tell him he won,” Hutch said. “Tell him John Hutchinson says he won. I give up. I’m done. Whatever he wants . . . just . . . whatever he wants. You got that?”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Did you hear me or not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you tell him I want what’s mine. That’s the deal.” He recited the clerk’s mobile phone number and listened to the woman repeat it. He hung up. He breathed in deeply, pushed it out.