Out of Reach: A Novel Page 7

  The room was cramped. A reception counter crossed the space a half-dozen steps into the room. Behind it, two desks sat sideways, face-to-face. A row of gray filing cabinets lined the wall in back of one, while behind the other was a long table with a fax and copy machine. On the far side of both desks was a large picture window that opened onto the warehouse beyond.

  Erin saw ice-cream trucks and carts parked across from a large, industrial freezer. The office might be shut down for the day, but the warehouse buzzed with activity. Laughter and rowdy male voices reached through the glass as men in silly white coats and hats unloaded trucks. One man circulated among them, counting boxes and recording his findings on a large clipboard before the drivers wheeled the merchandise through freezers’ open doors.

  Erin suspected it was like this all summer, especially on nights like tonight. It was a pleasant weekend evening, maybe the last of the year, and the drivers would keep their trucks out as late as possible to entice people as they enjoyed summer’s last fling.

  She searched the faces. No one looked familiar, at least from this distance, and she fought the urge to leave Donovan and Kauffman to their files and head out to get a closer look. Unfortunately, Donovan wouldn’t appreciate her initiative, and she needed him on her side.

  “My secretary takes care of these things,” Kauffman was saying as he unlocked one of the metal filing cabinets. “So I might have trouble finding the shift reports.” He rifled through one drawer, slammed it shut, then started on a second. Finally, from the third drawer, he pulled out a sheet, glanced at it, then handed it over.

  “Okay,” he said. “Here’s the schedule for the day. It looks like Al Beckwith worked Jamestown Park.”

  Donovan scanned the sheet. “Any chance he’s still here?”

  “Could be. Want me to page him?”

  “No. We’ll go look. But first, I want his personnel file.”

  Kauffman returned to the cabinet, went through the first drawer again, and returned with a slim folder. “Here’s everything we have on him.”

  Donovan opened the file on the nearby desk, and Erin stepped up beside him to look over his shoulder. It contained a simple application form, a couple of evaluation sheets, salary information, and a photograph.

  “You keep pictures of all your employees?” Donovan asked.

  “It’s for insurance purposes,” Kauffman said, glancing at his watch. “Because our drivers deal mostly with kids.”

  Erin studied the picture. Beckwith was youngish, a couple of years on either side of thirty. Thin blond hair. Watery blue eyes. And looked nothing like the man she’d seen in the park today.

  Disguise, however, was an art. Once you’d mastered it, changing your appearance was as simple as slipping on a new set of clothes.

  “Does he do magic tricks for the kids?” she asked, speaking up for the first time.

  Kauffman shrugged. “Haven’t a clue.”

  Donovan frowned. “So you don’t know if he entertains the kids with disappearing coins?”

  “They get paid a salary plus a percentage of what they sell. So, whatever they have to do, they do.”

  Alec glanced at Erin, a question in his eyes. Is this the guy?

  “We need to talk to him,” she answered.

  “Okay.” Alec turned back to Kauffman. “I’m going to keep this file, but meanwhile let’s take a look and see if Al Beckwith is here.”

  Kauffman seemed distinctly uncomfortable with the prospect of handing over one of his employees, but agreed. He led them into the warehouse, toward the bevy of men who slowed when they saw him approach, obviously surprised to see their boss here on a Saturday night.

  “Is Beckwith back?” Kauffman asked the man with the clipboard.

  He nodded across the floor, toward a man unloading one of the handcarts. “Over there.”

  “Hey, Al,” Kauffman called, “there are some cops here to see you.”

  Beckwith turned, arms loaded, his eyes flicking from Erin and Donovan to the uniformed officer behind them.

  Donovan tensed. “He’s gonna bolt.”

  Beckwith dropped his load. The boxes crashed to the ground, splitting and spilling ice-cream bars, as he sprinted toward the back of the warehouse and the gaping loading dock.

  “Shit.” Donovan and the young cop shot after him, dodging men and vehicles.

  Kauffman stood, mouth wide, feigning surprise that Beckwith had run after his loud announcement.

  “Is there a side door?” Erin demanded, furious at the man.

  “What?” Kauffman looked at her, brow furrowed.

  “A side door.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He made a vague gesture to the right of the freezer. “There’s a fire exit.”

  Erin sprang toward it, her path relatively clear compared with that of the men following Beckwith. Slamming through the emergency door, she set off a wailing alarm. She ignored it and raced toward the rear of the building.

  As she rounded the corner, Beckwith leapt from the loading dock, with no sign of Donovan or the cop behind him. He was headed for the woods, across a parking lot and litter-strewn field. Once there, they’d lose him.

  She increased her speed, her feet barely touching the pavement, wishing she had a weapon.

  He saw her coming, seconds before she slammed into him, bringing him to the ground. He landed with a grunt, and she tucked and rolled, back on her feet before he’d gathered enough wits to scramble. Then he jumped up with the energy of youth and fear, but she didn’t give him time to regain his balance. Swinging a leg around, she swept his from beneath him. And he was on the ground again, cursing.

  Suddenly, Donovan and the uniform were on them.

  Erin backed off, letting the cop snag Beckwith’s arm and roll him onto his stomach.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Beckwith hollered.

  “Then why the hell did you run?” asked the cop as he slapped cuffs on the man’s wrists.

  Donovan grabbed Erin’s arm and pulled her away from the other two men. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Catching your man for you.” She yanked her arm from his grasp, irritation rekindling the adrenaline just as it had started to ebb. “Or would you rather have had to track him through those woods?”

  “It was a damn stupid stunt,” he said, features tight. “You could have been hurt.”

  “Do I look hurt?”

  He started to answer, then stopped, as if suddenly realizing something about her. And he looked her over, possibly for signs of blood. “Where did you learn to drop a man like that?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Again, he looked ready to argue but stopped himself. Giving her a look that said their conversation was far from over, he turned his attention back to the young cop, who was hauling Beckwith to his feet.

  “Read him his rights,” Donovan snapped. “Then I have a few questions.”

  “It’s not him,” Erin said, disappointment tinging her voice.

  Donovan swung back to her. “What?”

  “He’s not the man I saw in the park.” Beckwith didn’t move right. He was young and agile, but lacking the grace and control of the other man. And he’d gone down too easily.

  “Damn.” Donovan dragged a hand through his hair. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Again, she was expecting him to accept her at her word and knew it was asking a lot.

  “Agent Donovan.”

  His frustration showing, he turned toward the second police officer, jogging toward them from the direction of the cars. “What is it?”

  “They found her.” The officer stopped in front of them, looking at her first before settling on Donovan. “They found Chelsea Madden.”

  VIII

  FROM HIS WINDOW, Ryan watched the headlights approach the mansion. It was after midnight, well past time for deliveries or household staff returning for the night. That left only one possibility. Trader.

  Ryan shivered.

  The General had arrived ear
lier in the day with his usual flourish: a black stretch limousine and four-car diplomatic escort. A short while later, another visitor had arrived. One of the many who often showed up during the General’s short stays. A small man, nervous, his eyes darting this way and that as one of the General’s men escorted him inside.

  Trader, on the other hand, always came at night. Always alone. No one ever greeted him. And his visits were never a good thing.

  Although Ryan had been expecting him. The boy, Cody, had already been here longer than most. Three days. It had to be some kind of record. It was past time for Trader to come for him.

  Suppressing a stab of guilt, Ryan crawled back into bed and waited for the stomp of feet in the outside hallway, the click of the door opening, and the sound of fear from the next room. He tried not to think about what Cody would go through, where Trader would take him, or who would own him next. There was nothing Ryan could do, no way he could stop what was about to happen.

  The kid would learn the hard way the meaning of defiance, and he’d learn it from a harsher hand than Ryan’s.

  Ryan turned his head sideways to watch the slow progression of time on his bedside clock. Four minutes since he’d seen Trader’s car. Five. Seven.

  Still, only silence from the next room.

  At ten minutes, Ryan sat up. It was taking too long. Trader never lingered. Trader came, he picked up or dropped off merchandise, and he was gone. Usually within fifteen or twenty minutes. Ryan couldn’t remember a time when he’d done anything different.

  Something else was going on, and it made Ryan nervous.

  From under his mattress, he retrieved the key he’d stolen from the housekeeper several weeks ago. Although he suspected she knew he’d taken it, she’d never reported it missing. He liked to think she had a soft spot for him, but more likely she feared the certain punishment she’d receive if the General discovered the loss. At the very least, he’d send her home immediately, without the promised money that made her months in the U.S. bearable.

  The staff consisted entirely of the General’s countrymen—coarse, hardworking Germanic people, who did their jobs and didn’t meddle in the General’s affairs. None of them spoke more than a smattering of English, but during the two years Ryan had lived here, he’d picked up enough of their language to communicate. Though he often pretended to understand less than he really did. It suited both him and the silent, stoic servants, who pretended not to know Ryan’s function here or even notice him much.

  They came here for one reason. To work for a year or sometimes two. No longer. Then return home, with what seemed like a fortune in American dollars.

  With that, the General bought loyalty. And silence.

  Ryan’s loyalty, on the other hand, had always been to himself, to finding a way just to survive. Which tonight meant finding out what was going on. So, key in hand, he stepped out into the hallway.

  All was quiet.

  The key opened the door to the main section of the mansion. He had full run of the east wing, which housed the kitchens, servants’ quarters, and bedrooms for himself and the occasional visitor, like Cody. However, the rest of the building—inside and out—was off-limits.

  The one other time he’d dared use the key, he’d explored the General’s silent and luxurious rooms. He’d felt daring and brave that night, spying on forbidden territory. His courage had failed him, however, when a maid entered the General’s dressing room, where Ryan had been about to check out the contents of one of the closets. He’d slipped inside, barely hiding in time. Since then, he’d never summoned the courage to use the key again.

  Tonight, however, he planned to risk it.

  Cody had accused him of cowardice, but it wasn’t true. Ryan had simply learned to cope in a world that claimed more victims than survivors. Finding out what Trader was up to was just another way to ensure that Ryan kept his place here in the mansion. It had nothing to do with bravery, or lack of it, and he was going to prove it.

  As he crept down the back stairs, he willed himself invisible.

  He was good at going unnoticed. He’d learned it early, practiced it for years. If you didn’t call attention to yourself, maybe no one would see you, no one would call on you or pick you out of a group. Blend into the background, and maybe another child would be chosen.

  At the bottom of the steps, he waited before opening the kitchen door, listening. At this time of night, it should be empty, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Even here, there would be questions if he was discovered.

  Silence.

  He cracked the door and peered into a darkness lit only by a low-wattage bulb above the stove. Except for the cook’s cat, sleeping on the heating vent, the room was empty.

  He slipped inside and eased the door closed behind him.

  Okay. So far, so good.

  Though he felt anything but good. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, the slight tremble in his hands, and the thumping of his heart. He had to be crazy coming down here tonight. Whatever was going on was none of his business, and sneaking around could only get him in trouble.

  He knew he should go back upstairs.

  Instead, he crossed to the door leading to the rest of the mansion. During the day it was open, but at night, once the General was done with the staff, it was locked. Only the housekeeper and butler were supposed to have a key.

  Ryan wondered how she’d hidden her loss. Would the butler cover for her? In exchange for what favors?

  At the door, Ryan hesitated.

  Once he went through it, there would be no explaining his actions. It was forbidden territory without the General’s express permission, and Ryan shuddered to think of what would happen if he was caught. Especially with Trader in the mansion.

  Suddenly, his courage fled. What was he doing?

  The question struck him with mind-numbing fear. This was so crazy. He’d seen what happened to those who openly defied their owners, and he’d learned his place long ago. Turning, he was halfway across the kitchen to the stairwell before he came to an abrupt halt.

  You’re a prisoner here, too.

  Cody’s words. An accusation thrown at Ryan on the first day, then again and again in the days that followed. Cody had kept up his defiance and his demands for Ryan’s help. And even though he’d finally started eating, Ryan knew it had nothing to do with surrender. He suspected the kid was gathering strength for some useless escape attempt.

  The kid’s attitude ticked Ryan off, and along with the anger came a surge of defiance that his rational voice couldn’t silence. He wasn’t the victim here. Not a prisoner. And he was going to prove it.

  Before he could convince himself otherwise, he unlocked the door and was on the other side closing and relocking it behind him. He didn’t want one of the staff discovering it open. The whole time, the survivor in him screamed at him to go back.

  Ignoring it, he started down the corridor, toward the grand foyer. Except for an occasional dim light, everything was dark, and he kept to the shadows along the wall. Trader would be with the General in his study, where he spent most of his time at the mansion.

  Ryan had only been in the room a few times, three or four when called in by the General and once the night he’d done his exploring. He remembered it was large, with dark paneling and heavy leather furniture. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, where the General took his evening brandy, a couple of Dobermans at his feet. Big, fierce dogs, they’d watched Ryan with suspicious eyes.

  He hated those dogs, and feared them. Almost as much as he feared Trader.

  Over the fireplace hung a portrait of a fierce-looking man in full military uniform. The servants claimed he was the General’s father, who’d beat him regularly, then died and left his family penniless. Ryan figured it was just idle servant gossip. Something to talk about, a way to bring the General down to their level. The man who owned this house was rich, and Ryan couldn’t imagine anyone having the courage to raise a hand against him.

  Be
sides, if the stories were true, why would the General keep such a reminder in his favorite room?

  While the question rattled around in his thoughts, Ryan crept toward the servants’ pantry, a long, narrow corridor stretching behind the length of the study, dining room, and main parlor. Years ago, servants had used the room to serve the family. Now the doors that once accessed each room had been sealed off, and the pantry remained unused and empty. It was a good place to listen without being seen.

  Inside he positioned himself on the floor next to a heating vent, where he could hear snatches of conversation from the study. Although the two men were speaking too low for him to make out their words, he could hear the tone. And the timbre of Trader’s voice. Deep. Low. And menacing.

  It sent a shiver through him, making him realize he’d been very, very stupid. He should never have come down here. What did he think he’d find or hear that would make any difference to him? After all, the General had been good to him. Generous.

  Two years ago, Ryan’s owner had been ready to dump him on the street. He’d grown too old and become just another mouth to feed. Instead, the General had taken Ryan in, giving him a place to live. All he had to do was tend the young ones, the irregular stream of children that passed through the General’s mansion, and follow the rules. Easy enough under most circumstances. Easier by far than his duties for any of his previous owners. Instead, he’d let Cody goad him into proving his courage.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  He wished he was back in his room, safe and warm in his own bed. But it was too late now. Because with Trader’s voice in his ears, the thought of sneaking back down that long hallway and risking getting caught scared him beyond reason. He’d just have to stay put. And wait. For the General to go to his rooms. For Trader to leave.

  So he huddled down, willing himself invisible once again.

  Despite his fear, however, the heat, the drone of voices, and the late hour eventually lulled him into a half slumber.

  He was little again, and a woman he didn’t recognize held him on her lap. She rocked back and forth, her voice calming and familiar.