The Big Bad Wolf Read online

That was a genuine surprise to me. It didn’t track, and I said so.

  “Stump the stars,” said the agent. “Isn’t that what this case is about so far?”

  The state trooper barracks occupied a redbrick building tucked back from the highway. There wasn’t any activity outside, and I took that as a good sign. At least I had beaten the press there. No one had leaked the story so far.

  I hurried inside the barracks to meet Audrey Meek. I was eager to find out how she had survived against all odds, the first woman who had.

  Chapter 50

  MY VERY FIRST IMPRESSION was that Audrey Meek didn’t look at all like herself, not as she did in any of her publicity. Not now, anyway, not after her terrible ordeal. Mrs. Meek was thinner, especially in the face. Her eyes were dark blue, but the sockets appeared hollowed out. She had some color on both cheeks.

  “I’m FBI agent Alex Cross. It’s good to see you safe,” I said in a quiet voice. I didn’t want to interview her right now, but it had to be done.

  Audrey Meek nodded and her eyes met mine. I had the sense that she knew how lucky she was.

  “You have some color in your cheeks. Did you get that today?” I asked her. “While you were in the woods?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so. He took me outside for walks every day he held me captive. Considering the circumstances, he was often considerate. He made my meals, good ones, for the most part. He told me he’d been a chef at one time in Richmond. We had long talks almost every day, really long talks. It was so strange, everything about it. There was one day in the middle when he wasn’t at the house at all. I was petrified he’d left me there to die. But I didn’t really believe he would.”

  I didn’t interrupt her. I wanted to let Audrey Meek tell her story without any pressure or steering from me. It was astonishing to me that she had been released. It didn’t happen very often in cases like this one.

  “Georges? My children?” she asked. “Have they arrived yet? Will you let me see them if they’re here?”

  “They’re on their way,” I said. “We’ll bring them in as soon as they arrive. I’d like to ask a few questions while everything is still fresh in your mind. I’m sorry about this. There may be other missing people, Mrs. Meek. We think that there are.”

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Let me try to help, then. If I can, I will. Ask your questions.”

  She was a brave woman and she told me about the kidnapping, including a description of the man and woman who had grabbed her. It fit the late Slava Vasilev and Zoya Petrov. Then Audrey Meek took me through the ritual of the days that she was held captive by the man who called himself the Art Director.

  “He said he liked to wait on me, that he enjoyed it immensely. It was as if he was used to being subservient. But I sensed he also wanted to be my friend. It was so terribly weird. He’d seen me on TV and read articles about Meek, my company. He said he admired my sense of style and the way I didn’t seem to have too many airs about myself. He made me have sex with him.”

  Audrey Meek was holding herself together so well. Her strength amazed me, and I wondered if that was what her captor had admired.

  “Can I get you water? Anything?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I saw his face,” she said. “I even tried to draw it for the police. I think it’s a good likeness. It’s him.”

  This was getting stranger by the moment. Why would the Art Director let her see him, then release her? I’d never known anything like it, not in any other kidnapping case.

  Audrey Meek sighed and nervously clasped and unclasped her hands as she continued.

  “He admitted that he was obsessive-compulsive. About cleanliness, art, style, about loving another human being. He confessed several times that he adored me. He was often derogatory about himself. Did I tell you about the house?” she asked. “I’m not sure what I said here—or to the officers who found me.”

  “You didn’t talk about the house yet,” I said.

  “It was covered with some material, like a heavy-duty cellophane. It reminded me of event art. Like Christo. There were dozens of paintings inside. Very good ones. You ought to be able to find a house covered in cellophane.”

  “We’ll find it,” I agreed. “We’re looking now.”

  The door to the room where we were talking was cracked open. A trooper in a brimmed hat peeked in, then he opened the door wide and Audrey Meek’s husband, Georges, and her two children burst inside. It was such an unbelievably rare moment in abduction cases, especially one in which someone has been missing for more than a week. The Meek children looked afraid at first. Their father gently urged them forward, and joy took over. Their faces were wreathed in smiles and tears, and there was a group hug that seemed to last forever.

  “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” the girl shrieked, and clung to her mother as if she’d never let go of her again.

  My eyes filled, and then I went to the worktable. Audrey Meek had made two drawings. I looked at the face of the man who had held her captive. He looked very ordinary, like anybody you’d meet on the street.

  The Art Director.

  Why did you let her go? I wondered.

  Chapter 51

  WE GOT ANOTHER possible break around midnight. The police had information about a house covered with a plastic material in Ottsville, Pennsylvania. Ottsville was about thirty miles away, and we drove there in several cars in the middle of the night. It was tough duty at the end of a long day, but nobody was complaining too much.

  When we arrived, the scene reminded me of my past life in D.C.—officers used to wait for me there too. Three sedans and a couple of black vans were parked along the heavily wooded country road around a bend from a dirt lane that led to the house. Ned Mahoney, who had just arrived from Washington, and I met up with the local sheriff, Eddie Lyle.

  “Lights are all out in the house,” Mahoney observed as we approached what was actually a renovated log cabin. The only access to the secluded property was the dirt road. His HRT teams were waiting on his command to go.

  “It’s past one,” I said. “He might be waiting on us, though. I think there’s something desperate about this guy.”

  “Why’s that?” Mahoney wanted to know. “I need to hear.”

  “He let her go. She saw his face, and the house, the car too. He must have known we’d find him here.”

  “My people know what they’re doing,” the sheriff interrupted, sounding offended that he was being ignored. I didn’t much care what he thought—I had seen a local, inexperienced rookie cop blown away in Virginia one time. “I know what I’m doing too,” the sheriff added.

  I stopped talking to Mahoney and stared at Lyle. “Hold it right here. We don’t know what’s waiting for us inside the house, but we do know this—he knew we’d find this place and come for him. Now, you tell your men to stand down. FBI HRT goes in first! You’re backup for us. Do you have a problem with that?”

  The sheriff’s face reddened and he thrust out his chin. “I sure as hell do, but it doesn’t mean fuck-all, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t matter at all. So tell your men to stand down. You stand down too. I don’t care how good you think you are.”

  I started walking forward again with Mahoney, who was grinning and not trying to hide it. “You’re a hot ticket, man,” he said. A couple of his snipers were watching the cabin from less than fifty yards away. I could see that it had a gabled roof with a dormer on the loft level. Everything was dark inside.

  “This is HRT One. Anything going on in there, Kilvert?” Mahoney said into his mike to one of the snipers.

  “Not that I can see, sir. What’s the take on the UNSUB?”

  Mahoney looked at me.

  My eyes moved slowly across the cabin and the front and side yards. Everything looked neat, well maintained, and seemed to be in good repair. Power lines led to the roof.

  “He wanted us to come here, Ned. That can’t be good.”

  “Booby trap?” he asked. “T
hat’s how we plan to proceed.”

  I nodded. “That’s how I would go. If we’re wrong it’ll give the locals some yuks.”

  “Fuck the local yokels,” said Mahoney.

  “I agree with that. Now that I’m not a local anymore.”

  “Hotel and Charlie teams, this is HRT One,” Mahoney said into his mike. “This is Control. On the ready. Five, four, three, two, one, go!”

  Two HRT teams of seven rose up from “phase line yellow,” which is the final position for cover and concealment. They passed “phase line green” on the way to the house. After that there was no turning back.

  HRT’s motto for this kind of action was “speed, surprise, and violence of action.” They were very good at it, better than anything the Washington PD had to offer. Within a matter of seconds, the Hotel and Charlie teams were inside the cottage where Audrey Meek had been kept captive for over a week. Then Mahoney and I burst through the back door and into the kitchen. I saw stove, refrigerator, cabinets, table.

  No Art Director.

  No resistance of any kind.

  Not yet.

  Mahoney and I moved ahead cautiously. The living room area had a wood-burning stove, a striped contemporary-style couch in beige and brown, several club chairs. A big chest covered by a dark green afghan. Everything was tasteful and organized.

  No Art Director.

  Canvases were everywhere. Most had been finished. Whoever had done the paintings was talented.

  “Secure!” I heard. Then a shout—“In here!”

  Mahoney and I raced down a long hallway. Two of his men were already inside what looked to be the master bedroom. There were more painted canvases, lots of them, fifty or more.

  A nude body lay sprawled across the wooden floor. The look on the face was grotesque, tortured. The dead man’s hands were tightly wrapped around his own throat, as if he were strangling himself.

  It was the man Audrey Meek had drawn for us. He was dead, and his death had been horrible. Most likely poison of some kind.

  Papers lay scattered on the bed. Alongside them, a fountain pen.

  I bent and began to read one of several notes:

  To whomever—

  As you know by now, I am the one who held Audrey Meek captive. All I can say is that it is something I had to do. I believe I had no choice; no free will in the matter. I loved her since the first time I saw her at one of my exhibitions in Philadelphia. We talked that night, but of course she didn’t remember me. No one ever does. (Until now anyway.) What is the rationale behind an obsession? I have no idea, not a clue, even though I obsessed on Audrey for over seven years of my life. I had all the money I would ever need, and yet it meant nothing to me. Not until I got the opportunity to take what I really wanted, what I needed. How could I resist—no matter the price? A quarter million dollars seemed like nothing to be with Audrey, even for these few days. Then a strange thing. Maybe a miracle. Once we spent time together, I found that I loved Audrey too much to keep her like this. I never harmed her. Not in my own mind anyway. If I hurt you, Audrey, I’m sorry. I loved you very much, this much.

  One sentence kept repeating inside my head after I finished reading: Not until I got the opportunity to take what I really wanted, what I needed. How had that happened? Who was out there fulfilling the fantasies of these madmen?

  Who was behind this? It sure wasn’t the Art Director.

  Part Three

  WOLF TRACKS

  Chapter 52

  I DIDN’T GET BACK to Washington until almost ten the following night, and I knew I was in trouble with Jannie, probably with everybody in the house except Little Alex and the cat. I’d promised we would go to the pool at the Y, and now it was too late to go anywhere except to sleep.

  Nana was sitting over a cup of tea in the kitchen when I came in. She didn’t even look up. I bypassed a lecture and headed upstairs in the hopes that Jannie might still be awake.

  She was. My best little girl was sitting on her bed surrounded by several magazines, including American Girl. Her old favorite bear, Theo, was propped in her lap. Jannie had gone to sleep with Theo since she was less than a year old and her mother was still alive.

  In one corner of the room Rosie the cat was curled up on a pile of Jannie’s laundry. One of Nana’s jobs for her and Damon was that they start doing their own laundry.

  I had a thought about Maria then. My wife was kind and courageous, a special woman who’d been shot in a mysterious drive-by incident in Southeast that I’d never been able to solve. I had never closed the file. Maybe something would turn up. It’s been known to happen. I still missed her almost every day. Sometimes I even said a little prayer. I hope you forgive me, Maria. I’m doing the best I can. It just doesn’t seem good enough sometimes; good enough to me, anyway. We love you dearly.

  Jannie must have sensed I was there, watching her, talking to her mother. “I thought it was you,” she said.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I just did. My sixth sense is working pretty good lately.”

  “Were you waiting up for me?” I asked as I slipped into her room. It had been our one guest bedroom, but last year we had converted it to Jannie’s. I had built the shelving for the clay menagerie from her “Sojourner Truth period”: a stegosaurus, a whale, a black squirrel, a panhandler, a witch tied to a stake, as well as her favorite books.

  “I wasn’t waiting up, no. I didn’t expect you home at all.”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed. Framed over it was a copy of a Magritte painting of a pipe with the caption: this is not a pipe. “You’re going to torture me some, huh?” I said.

  “Of course. Goes without saying. I looked forward to some pool time all day.”

  “Fair enough.” I put my hand on top of hers. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Jannie.”

  “I know. You don’t have to say that, actually. You don’t have to be sorry. Really you don’t. I understand what you do is important. I get it. Even Damon does.”

  I squeezed my girl’s hands in mine. She was so much like Maria. “Thank you, sweetie. I needed that tonight.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “I could tell.”

  Chapter 53

  THE WOLF WAS in Washington, D.C., on a business trip that night. He had a late dinner at the Ruth’s Chris Steak House on Connecticut Avenue near Dupont Circle.

  Joining him was Franco Grimaldi, a stocky thirty-eight-year-old Italian capo from New York. They talked about a promising scheme to build Tahoe into a gambling mecca that would rival Vegas and Atlantic City; they also talked about pro hockey, the latest Vin Diesel movie, and a plan the Wolf had to make a billion dollars on a single job. Then the Wolfsaid he had to leave. He had another meeting in Washington. Business rather than pleasure.

  “You seeing the president?” Grimaldi asked.

  The Russian laughed. “No. He can’t get anything done. He’s all stronzate. Why should I see him? He should see me about Bin Laden and the terrorists. I get things done.”

  “Tell me something,” Grimaldi asked before the Wolf left. “The story about Palumbo out in the max-security prison in Colorado. You did that?”

  The Wolf shook his head. “A complete fairy tale. I am a businessman, not a lowlife, not some butcher. Don’t believe everything you hear about me.”

  The Mafia head watched the unpredictable Russian leave the steak house, and he was almost certain the man had killed Palumbo, and also that the president ought to contact the Wolf about Al Qaeda.

  Around midnight, the Wolf got out of a black Dodge Viper in Potomac Park. He could see the outline of an SUV across Ohio Drive. The roof light blinked on and a single passenger got out. Come to me, pigeon, he whispered.

  The man who approached him in Potomac Park was FBI and worked in the Hoover Building. His carriage was stiff and herky-jerky, like that of so many government functionaries. There was no confident G-man swagger. The Wolf had been warned that he couldn’t buy a useful agent and that he couldn’t
trust the information if he did. But he hadn’t believed that. Money always bought things, and it always bought people—especially if they had been passed over for promotions and raises; this was as true in America as it had been in Russia. If anything, it was more true here, where cynicism and bitterness were becoming the national pastimes.

  “So is anybody talking about me up on the fifth floor of the Hoover?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to meet like this. Next time, you run an ad in the Washington Times.”

  The Wolf smiled, but then he jabbed a finger into the federal agent’s jaw. “I asked you a question. Is anybody talking about me?”

  The agent shook his head. “Not yet, but they will. They’ve connected the murdered couple on Long Island to Atlanta and to the King of Prussia Mall.”

  The Wolf nodded. “Of course they have. I understand that these people of yours aren’t stupid. They’re just very limited.”

  “Don’t underestimate them,” the agent warned. “The Bureau is changing. They’re going to come after you with everything they have.”

  “It won’t be enough,” said the Wolf. “And besides, maybe I’ll come after them—with everything I have. I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow their house down.”

  Chapter 54

  THE NEXT NIGHT I got home before six o’clock. I had a sit-down dinner with Nana and the kids, who were surprised but clearly thrilled that I was home so early.

  The telephone rang toward the end of the meal. I didn’t want to answer it. Maybe somebody else had been grabbed, but I didn’t want to deal with it. Not tonight.

  “I’ll get it,” said Damon. “It’s probably for me. Some girlfriend.” He snatched the ringing telephone off the kitchen wall, flipped it from one hand to the other.

  “You wish it was a girl,” taunted Jannie from the table. “Dinnertime. It’s probably somebody selling MCI or a bank loan. They always call at dinner.”