I TOSS TWO more logs on the fire. It sparks while the dry logs take to the flame like tissue paper.
“So what do we do now, Sid?” Penny begs, her hands trembling. “I’m going crazy here. I feel like my skin is peeling off my body. I need to see Chloe. I need to know she’s alive.”
“They got us up against a wall, Pen. Like I just said, they believe my only choice … our only choice … is to give ourselves up.”
“Are we going to do that?” Penny begs. “Give ourselves up, I mean?”
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Pen. Whoever is doing this to us … whoever is masterminding it … is going to make contact with us. They’re going to try and make a deal. Our freedom in exchange for something else.”
“What about Chloe?”
“That’s the thing,” I add. “We don’t negotiate for anything less than Chloe’s release.”
“In exchange for what, Doc?”
“Who’s the common denominator in all of this?” I pose. “What’s the reason the DA let me out of prison in the first place?”
She thinks about it for a moment. But she doesn’t have to think long.
“Rabuffo has a treasure trove hidden away, Pen. My guess is that our enemies believe I not only know precisely where to find it, but that I know the combination to the vault itself.”
She looks at me for a moment. Rather, not at me, but into me.
“Well, Sidney,” she says, “do you?”
I hear it then.
Something coming from outside other than the weather. The sound of rotors chopping through the air. I go to the front door, open it, poke my head out. Just enough to get a look without being spotted. But then, they can see the smoke. If it’s a police chopper, they can pick up the heat signal from the fire on their infrared equipment. They can pick up our voices with basic over-the-counter sound equipment you can purchase at the local Radio Shack. They know we’re in here regardless of my exposed face.
We’re sitting ducks.
“What is it, Doc?” Penny asks. “Is it the police?”
“A helicopter,” I say. “They’re on to us, Pen. They know where we’re hiding out.”
I head out into a rain that’s eased up now that the bulk of the storm has passed. The black-and-white Lake Placid police chopper makes a low-flying pass, like they’re buzzing the place. I do the only thing I can do. I raise up my right hand, hold my middle index finger high.
Back inside the cabin, I stare down Penny.
Choices.
Surrender to the police. Head outside with our hands held high. Or stand our ground.
Penny’s eyes locked on mine.
“We’re screwed, Sidney,” she says, her voice trembling, big tears falling. “We’ve got nowhere to go. We have to give up.”
My chest tight, mouth dry, temples pounding. Instinct kicks in. The survival instinct. It overrides all reason. But it’s not just my survival that’s at stake here. Nor Penny’s. It’s Chloe’s. Nothing matters more than Chloe’s life. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make sure these bastards do not harm a single hair on her head.
I go to the gun rack at the opposite side of the room. I pull down the shotgun, examine it. It’s not in bad shape. It could use some oil, but otherwise in working order. Pulling down the .30-30, I can see it, too, is in working order.
The chopper buzzes overhead as it makes another pass. It sounds like it’s about to crash through the roof.
“We’ve got to do something, Doc,” Penny insists. “Do it now.”
“Like go outside and hold our hands over our head?” I respond. “Surrender? Only to lose our daughter forever?”
“They’ll have no choice but to return her to us.”
“You don’t know what we’re dealing with here, Pen,” I say. “It’s Rabuffo. Doesn’t matter if he’s in FBI custody. He has people who will not only make sure Chloe dies, but that she suffers in the process.”
She begins to cry again.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she weeps. “This isn’t happening. This is all a bad dream.”
“I need bullets,” I say more to myself than to Penny. “I can do without the oil, but bullets would be nice. And shells for the shotgun.”
Setting the .30-30 back on the rack, I once more grab the shotgun, slide back the action, open the bolt. Like I said, decent shape. Racking the gun, I head into the kitchen, examine the shelves mounted to the wall between the counter and the bathroom. Three boxes of Remington 12-guage shotgun shells. Another three boxes of Remington .30-30 cartridges. I grab hold of all six boxes, carry them into the main room and to the gun rack. Loading the .30-30, I listen to the chopper make another pass, and I see Penny once more staring at her phone.
She wipes her tears and locks her gaze on mine.
“It’s a text message,” she explains.
“Caller ID?”
“Unidentified caller, Doc.”
“Read it to me,” I say, cocking the now loaded .30-30, then starting on feeding shells to the shotgun.
“‘I can make all this go away,’” she recites.
“That’s it? That’s all it says?”
“‘I can make this go away,’” she repeats.
“What about the phone number? Is there an area code? Is it 518?” 518 being the local area code for this part of northern New York State. A code that also includes the capital city of Albany where our apartment is located.
“It’s an eight-eight-eight number,” Penny adds.
“Okay, Pen, that means whoever’s doing this is thorough and not prone to mistakes. It also means they somehow know your number.”
“What do I text in return?”
“Tell them we want our daughter back. Then we go our separate ways.”
She doesn’t hesitate to thumb the message into the phone.
The chopper buzzes the camp again.
So close, the thundering noise of the chopper causes Penny to shrug, as if the machine were about to take the roof off and our heads along with it.
“That’s enough of that,” I grouse.
Switching up the shotgun for the .30-30, I head outside onto the overgrown front lawn. I catch sight of the chopper, a Huey, about to make another pass. Shouldering the rifle, I plant a bead on its nose. As the chopper begins its dive, I wait patiently, holding my breath until it’s almost directly over the tin roof. That’s when I release some of the air in my lungs and fire as rapidly as possible.
I’m certain I’ve connected with the chopper’s windshield, because I can see the chips of safety glass fly off it. The chopper exposes its belly, rapidly taking on elevation as a defensive maneuver. I fire again, this time aiming for the engine. When I see black smoke emerge from the back of the chopper exhaust, I know I’ve struck home.
The chopper circles over the wilderness like a wounded bird of prey. But its motor can’t be that badly damaged since it’s now coming back toward me. Something’s different this time. The closer it comes, the easier it is to see that its side door has been opened. There’s a man leaning out of it. He’s dressed in black tactical gear including a helmet and dark goggles. He’s also holding an automatic rifle. The automatic rifle is armed with a grenade launcher.
I take aim with my .30-30 at the exact moment I make out the flash of the grenade launcher.
“Holy Christ!” I bark as I launch myself onto the cabin two-track.
The grenade detonates maybe ten feet away from me, the concussion rattling my teeth and bones, exploded soil and grass raining down upon me. Shaking the dizziness from my head, I do my best to bound back up, and return the fire as the chopper once again zooms away from me.
But I’m so unsteady and shaken up, all I’m hitting is air.
The chopper flies another circular pattern.
It’s coming back. Its trajectory is lower this time. Like whoever is doing the shooting is trying to improve his aim. It hits me then that he might be going for the cabin. Maybe he’ll try to hit it with a grenade, hope for a fire, burn us out into the open for good. It’s exactly how I’d do it.
“Penny,” I whisper to myself. “She’s inside the cabin.”
I go for the front door, throw it open. My wife is nowhere to be seen.
“Penny!” I shout. “Penny, where are you!?”
“Here,” she responds.
I gaze in the direction of the voice. That’s when I spot her hiding under the bunk beds.
“Jesus, spiders are everywhere under here!” she barks.
I go to her, bend at the knees, take hold of her hand.
“We’ve got to move, baby. We’ve got to get the hell out.”
Yanking her out from under the bunk beds, I pull her up onto her feet, and drag her to the front door, a half second before the grenade connects with the back of the cabin.