THE VALUE OF leaning on the power of understanding and wisdom in a world ripped apart by schoolyard bullies and third-world tyrants had first become saving knowledge to Ryan when he was in the sixth grade.
He’d always been a bit of a nerd, admittedly so even at twelve. And Bobby Knutz had always gone out of his way to make sure he didn’t forget it. Ribbing and an occasional beating on the playground had been a part of Ryan’s life as long as he could remember. But Bobby Knutz and those he ran with were simply taller and thicker.
Thing of it was, any idiot in the school could see that Bobby didn’t exactly come from a home brimming with goodwill and covetous treasures. His father was an unemployed drunk and his mother didn’t make enough as a waitress to keep Bobby in much better than rags. Muscle, it occurred to young Ryan, didn’t pay.
Intelligence, on the other hand, like that exhibited by professors and all those who worked in office buildings, did pay. He began a very purposeful and quietly successful retreat away from the impulsive, macho, pubescent world of the American teenage scene then, determining instead to excel in the more rewarding pursuit of knowledge.
Ryan had torn up less than a mile of Barton Creek Boulevard after fleeing Celine’s house when his good sense returned and announced in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t settle down and think like he’d never thought before, he was going to the clinker. And if he was going to the clinker, Bethany was going to the grave.
It was that simple.
In a strange way he’d been thrown into the same situation in which Kahlid had found himself in the desert. Like the father in the Middle East, Ryan was reacting out of love for his child. He could never do what Kahlid had done, killing innocents for the sake of others.
The thought made him shiver. Dear God, help him. For the first time since seeing what he’d seen in the desert, Ryan’s mind was able to comprehend Kahlid’s anguish at losing his child.
War was hell, quite literally. And Ryan was now in a war, wasn’t he? This was no different. The only difference was that having suffered as he had in Iraq, he would be unwilling to sacrifice any innocent blood. Period. He just could not go there.
He grabbed a lungful of air, then another, and slowed down. Nothing like a speeding Toyota Camry to draw attention.
His mind, however, did not slow. To understand that he was in a pickle required only a very little bit of intelligence, the amount that graced the minds of America’s upper half, including him.
He had just held his wife, two police officers, the district attorney, and the FBI special agent in charge of the BoneMan case at gunpoint. And he’d done so after being asked if he might be the BoneMan. A ludicrous suggestion, of course, but one that was now undoubtedly all but assured in their minds.
Having held these five individuals at gunpoint, he’d fled the scene, an act of complete desperation because he, like they, surely knew that he couldn’t get away. Yet he’d fled anyway, having walked directly into a trap.
To make matters worse, he’d made it perfectly clear that he had special knowledge of the case, knowledge only BoneMan should have.
But none of these particulars were as disturbing to Ryan as the one that flogged his mind as he tried to harness its calculating prowess, fleeing down Barton Creek Boulevard, sixty seconds after leaving Celine and company against the wall: Bethany was with BoneMan.
Think, Ryan. He took another deep, cleansing breath. Think.
Okay. He had to ditch the car. They would be all over Bee Cave Road and Southwest Parkway, the two primary roads that fed the vicinity, and Southwest Parkway was a wide-open thoroughfare with little traffic—not the best road to blend in on.
He whipped the Camry around and tore back the other way, past the house, relieved to see that they weren’t climbing into their cars to chase him down. No, they were too smart for that. More likely on the phone, getting choppers in the air, locking down the surrounding streets.
Ryan turned right on Lost Creek Boulevard and took the twisting road through two valleys before jerking the car into Lost Creek Country Club’s private drive.
He rolled into the parking lot, stopped between a black Mercedes and a BMW M6, and turned off the ignition.
The motor clicked softly.
Now what?
Now two things: One, he had to avoid being taken into custody at all costs. Two, he had to find BoneMan. To do either he had to remain perfectly calm and reasoned.
The second objective was one that had eluded the law—there was no reason to think that he could succeed where they had failed. Except that BoneMan had engaged Ryan directly, maybe even wanted him to find his daughter. If the law got too close before Ryan found them, they would be gone. Which meant he couldn’t help the FBI find BoneMan.
He had to find BoneMan on his own.
Ryan looked at his hands, trembling on the steering wheel. See, now his mind had retreated into reason, but his body wasn’t keeping up, not since his breakdown in the desert.
He placed both hands on his lap.
BoneMan’s words echoed through his mind. “Where the crows fly.” What the oblique reference could possibly mean was beyond him, but then so was every cipher at first glance.
Or was it a simple riddle? For that matter, it could be a straightforward clue. Either way he’d broken it down a dozen times on the drive down to Austin, and he did it again now, knowing that meticulous repetition was the key to breaking all codes.
He lingered on the whole message. A chopper beat the air far above him, but he ignored it. There was no way they could see through the massive birch under which he’d parked.
From a dozen feet, BoneMan’s message was plain. I’ve taken your daughter and I want you to see if you can find her. If you can’t do so in seven days, I’m going to kill her.
Her name is Bethany. Bethany, from the Hebrew Beth, meaning My God is a vow or the vow of God. Bethany is a living reminder of God’s perfection in creation.
It took you seven days to make her. It took God seven days to create this vow called life.
Now I’m giving you as much time to save her. But now God’s perfect vow is in trouble and she is in my control because I, not God, have her. I will give you seven days to save her.
Follow me where the crows fly, alone, Father.
Follow me … I want you to come, not the FBI or the police.
Where the crows fly … Where black birds called crows congregate. Where people who remind me of crows congregate.
Or was it more metaphorical? Where crows fly, meaning in the mind, or up high, in the open…
In the open. In the air. Where everyone can see you. Follow me where I can see you. I will find you.
Ryan let the thoughts circulate, like crows, taking whatever path they liked, however jerky or abstract. A full twenty minutes passed, and he decided that it was enough.
He walked up to the clubhouse and stepped around to the side, where two vans sat next to a large protected garbage receptacle. He’d intended on taking one of the vans either by hotwiring it or by acquiring the keys inside, but he now saw that the closest used a magnetic logo.
He peeled the large Lost Creek Country Club placard off and slipped behind the vehicle. Working with his utility knife, he quickly unscrewed the license plate and returned to the Camry.
It took Ryan only a few more minutes to make the switch with his own car and pull out of the parking lot. He now drove a club car with a club license plate, not enough to escape scrutiny for long, but it would slow them.
Half an hour had passed since his altercation with Celine and company. None of this would get him any closer to finding Bethany, but for the sake of his own sanity he’d set aside the objective for the moment. He had to get past whatever net they were spreading before he took BoneMan up on his challenge.
In the open. On the air. As the crow flies.
He couldn’t be sure it was what BoneMan wanted, but until or unless a better idea presented itself to him, he would run with the assumption.
Ryan drove the Camry to Lost Creek Clubhouse and parked it on one of the upper lots, where it would likely remain inconspicuous for some time. The main resort rose from the golf course a hundred yards farther down and, taking the answering machine with him, he walked to the hotel without concern of being spotted as anyone other than just one more golfer who’d come to take on the world-class course.
The authorities were much farther out by now—they would never suspect that he was still within a mile or two of Celine’s house.
But BoneMan wasn’t here, in this mile or two, he was sure of that.
It took him a half hour to find the right car, a black Ford Taurus that looked as if it had been parked for at least a few days. He was forced to break the side window to gain access, but fortunately this was Texas—he hardly needed a window to keep out the cold.
Ten minutes later he rolled out of Lost Creek and turned south on Bee Cave Road. He took 360 north to Westlake Plaza, where he once again took his place in a parking lot, just another black car in a sea of similar cars.
Satisfied that he was safe for some hours, Ryan sunk low in his seat, eyed the radio tower at the lot’s south end, and focused his mind on the problem at hand.
RYAN HAD FIRST seen the towers two months earlier on his way out of town—an intelligence officer obsessed with communication tended to notice things like antennae. KRQZ FM 106.5 had particularly sexy towers. Not that it mattered. Once he made his statement, every audio source in southern Texas would be rebroadcasting it.
The hours ticked by slowly as he waited for the day to pass. Once he stepped out they would have a fix on him—he had to wait for darkness to cover his escape.
So he sat low and he listened to the radio and he waited.
It was strange to hear his name over the car’s sound system, particularly as the man now identified as being armed, dangerous, and under suspicion of being BoneMan.
He ran through the dial, surprised at the extent of the coverage. Ryan Evans was described as an embittered combat veteran potentially suffering from mental disorders. An estranged father of the victim and a hostile ex-husband who’d broken into the administration building two months earlier and physically assaulted the district attorney.
They were offering $50,000 for information that led to his arrest.
Hearing the reports, Ryan wasn’t sure that he wasn’t some kind of crazed lunatic who had gone off the deep end. They seemed to know him better than he knew himself. It was all enough to lure him back into a state of complete despair.
But he couldn’t allow despair to cloud his judgment, not now. He was in the middle of breaking the code of his life, a challenge of wits with stakes that made those in the desert seem like child’s play in his way of thinking.
By midafternoon the authorities had publicly launched the largest manhunt in recent Austin history. By all reports the face of Ryan Evans was plastered all over the Internet and on all of the newscasts. Hotlines were already flooded with tips.
And yet here he sat, in the corner of a parking lot, lost and alone.
They were now looking for a silver Camry with Lost Creek Country Club logos on the sides, they said. By morning it might be a black Taurus, but by then, if all went well, he would be across the state.
Dusk fell at seven that evening, and as the sky began to grow gray, Ryan began to sweat. Contrary to the endless speculation on the airwaves, he wasn’t as bloodthirsty or ruthless as they’d painted him. Thoughts of committing the smallest crime turned him weak.
But there was one facet of their characterization that rang true and was perhaps even understated. Ryan was desperate. He was a desperate father who would do whatever it took to find and save his daughter. The fact that he’d managed to temper that desperation through great effort did not keep him from sweating as the time approached.
Satisfied that there was enough darkness to aid his flight, Ryan shoved the gun behind his belt, exited the Taurus, and walked up to the glass door that read KRQZ FM 106.5, THE SEXY SIDE OF COUNTRY.
He paused with his hand on the door, took a deep breath, and walked in.
The long, curved reception desk was empty after hours, his first break, and God knew he needed as many breaks as he could get. He walked straight to the hallway door and pushed his way past it.
A wide, darkened hall lined by several large picture windows that peered into studios ran into the building. No one had seen him so far, no one around that he could see.
And then that changed with the emergence of a man and woman, who pushed open one of the doors and turned up the hall toward him.
“No, but what I am saying is that American Idol is finished if they don’t completely change up their presentation,” the woman dressed in khaki slacks and a pink top said. “Call it burnout. I know I’m a victim.”
Her friend lifted his eyes and stared at Ryan. “Not disagreeing. But you gotta admit Seacrest is the real star in…”
And then his eyes went wide, and Ryan knew he’d been recognized. He lifted his hand and strode forward.
“Excuse me. Excuse me, you guys know where the manager is?”
“It’s him!” The young man had red hair piled in curls atop his head, a thin guy who was more frame then flesh, and his round blue eyes bugged like balls from his boney head.
They both stopped and stared.
Ryan withdrew the gun but he held it low, in a nonthreatening manner, so as not to frighten them.
“I just need to use—”
The pink-shirted woman screamed, and Ryan knew it was all over. He lifted the gun and shoved it at both of them. “Fine, if you insist. But please, keep your mouths shut.” He glanced through one of the picture windows as he passed. A darkened, unused studio.
Back on the pair. “How many people are working here tonight?”
“You’re him,” the man said, swallowing with the help of a pronounced Adam’s apple.
“How many?”
“Just three of us.”
“Where’s the other one?”
“In the studio.”
“Okay, that’s good.” He stopped two yards from them and held the gun awkwardly. “If you’ve been watching the news, you know that I’m unstable, right?”
She nodded.
“So you don’t want to do anything stupid, like scream or try to warn your friend. I’m not going to hurt you; I only want to use your equipment.”
They thought he was the BoneMan, he realized. BoneMan was standing in their hall, waving a gun at them. They were too shocked to respond.
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Brent,” the redhead squeaked.
“Anyone else due in tonight?”
“No.”
“So… we should be alone for a while.”
“Please,” the girl whispered.
He waved the gun. “Take me to Brent.”
They both turned as if walking on pins and retraced their steps down the hall toward the door they’d just passed through.
Their friend was a younger man with long black hair who wore headphones and was bopping his head to music when they stepped inside the studio.
Ryan locked the door and pulled the blinds that covered the window.
“Whoa!” The dark-haired hippie turned and spotted his gun. “What the—”
“Shut up, Brent.” He waved the gun at a bank of chairs along the wall. “Sit, all of you.”
But they just stared at him.
“Sit!” he yelled. “You think I’m just playing around here? Now sit your asses in those chairs and… just sit!”
They hurried to the chairs like frantic geese and sat. Brent’s headphones where still in place, and the cord was stretched across the room.
Ryan walked up to him, plucked the headgear from his head, and tossed it on the floor.
“Now, I’m going to make this really simple. I need your help. If you help me, I won’t break your fingers and toes and maybe your… ankles.” Dear God, he wasn’t sounding like the BoneMan, certainly not the likes of Kahlid. He steeled his jaw.
“I need to send out a message and then I need to get away before the authorities swarm this place. You need to help me, okay?”
They stared at him with round eyes.
Ryan snapped his fingers. “Do I start breaking fingers, or are you going to snap out of it?”
“We’ll do anything,” the girl pleaded. “Please, please don’t hurt us.”
“I won’t. Just don’t… mess things up. I can transmit live from here, right?”
“Yes,” the redhead said.
“How many frequencies can you broadcast on?” He glanced at the hippie kid.
“Legally?”
“No. How many?”
“Seven.”
“Then I want to send a message out on all seven frequencies.”
“You can’t do them all at once. We don’t have the equipment for that.”
“How many can you do at once?”
“One.”
“Fine. But I want what I say to be picked up and broadcast on every news channel and station in this city. I want you to supply the feed to them all, you got that? Just leak it out.”
“Leak what out?”
“What I have to say.”
“What you have to say to who?”
“To BoneMan.”
“Are… aren’t you BoneMan?” Brent asked.
“Well, that depends. Maybe there are two of us. I’m not the one that has my daughter, now am I? I need to get him a message and for that, I need your help. If I fail, he’s going to kill my daughter.”
They stared at him, clueless.
“Just tell me you’ll help me. I need your help.”
Sweat snaked down Ryan’s cheeks. This was taking too long.
Then again, no one but these three knew he was in this building. They were looking for him on the roads, not in radio stations.
Ryan lowered the gun, momentarily swamped by deep sadness. He couldn’t do this. How could he stand here and pretend to be strong in the face of such impossible odds while his daughter lay in a bag somewhere, crying in fear.
The image turned his vision black for a moment and he yelled at the three young station workers. He didn’t yell anything specifically, just a roar of outrage directed at the BoneMan and whatever demonic entity had possessed him to visit such pain upon him. Was this the price for having ignored his daughter for sixteen years? What this the price for all fathers who had forgotten how precious their daughters were?
If so, this price was too great for any grievance.
And what kind of creature from hell would take it upon himself to extract such a cruel price?
Ryan realized he was breathing hard, but he didn’t have the strength to bring himself back into full control.
He glared at the three workers, who looked as though they realized their worst fears were going to happen after all. For a moment the BoneMan had seemed quite lucid, but then he’d lost it and began snapping their bones right there in the studio.
He walked around the equipment, sat hard in the chair before the microphone, and set his gun on the desk. He dropped his head into his hands and began to cry.
He knew that he was taking a terrible risk by not training the gun on them, but he just couldn’t stop the sorrow that rolled over him. He felt so hopeless, so dark, so powerless to affect the inevitable outcome he knew awaited his daughter.
BoneMan would break her bones.
Ryan lifted his head and picked up the gun. The three workers were still staring at him.
“Sorry.” He sniffed and stood. “Sorry, I just don’t know what I’m going to do. They think I’m the BoneMan, but I’m not. He has my daughter and he wants me to find her. No one believes that, but that doesn’t get me off the hook. Have… have you seen pictures of my daughter?”
Brent nodded. “Bethany?”
“Bethany.” Saying her name brought a quiver to his lips. “Tell me how to turn this equipment on, Brent.”
He lifted his hands.
“Just tell me from there.”
“It’s a playlist now. Just hit the third red switch on the top, the one that says Live Audio.”
He saw it. “That’s it?”
“You activate the microphone by pressing the A button next to it.”
Ryan nodded. “And that’s it?”
“Do that and you’re live, yes.”
Ryan sat down, gun propped up in his right hand. He eyed the three, flipped the red switch, and pressed the A button.
One last look at Brent, who nodded.
And then Ryan spoke over the airwaves for BoneMan to hear.
“BoneMan, this is Ryan Evans. You have my daughter and I accept your challenge. I will follow you as you’ve requested and I will save my daughter. You hear me? I’m doing what you wanted me to do. I’m doing it for the whole world to hear, and so now I have the power. You’re in check, my friend. It’s your move. The only question now is whether you can find me before they do.”
He paused, considering the words he’d spoken.
“You’ve taken the daughters before. I know your work. I sat with the children for three days and I heard their bones break. Now take the father. You know that’s what you need, to destroy the father.”
The foam cover on the mic touched his lip. He lowered his voice and delivered his final set of instructions.
“I’ll be waiting where they make their home, BoneMan. Find me before they shoot me out of the sky.”
He reached up and flipped the switch.
To Brent: “You’re sure that went out.”
“It went out.”
Ryan stood. “How many people would you say heard that?”
“On a Wednesday night? A couple hundred thousand.”
“Then the police are probably already on their way here. You make sure this gets picked up, or I’m going to pay you another visit, you hear?”
“I hear.”
Ryan gave them one parting glance as he walked for the door. Then he pulled the door open, stepped into the hall, and sprinted for the front door.
He checked the outer door before exiting the building—no police. Not yet, but that would change in a matter of minutes. The black Taurus sat undisturbed under the tree where he’d left it.
He crossed the parking lot, slid behind the wheel, and piloted the car out of the lot and onto Westlake Drive.
Two police cruisers screamed up Capitol of Texas Highway as he headed south. He’d missed them by less than a minute, but in the dark, driving a black sedan, a minute was all he needed.
It took Ryan half an hour to clear the southwestern outskirts of Austin, headed west on Highway 290. He had a long drive ahead of him, a long time to think things through. But there was nothing more to be thought of.
He’d made his play and he’d made it right or he’d made it wrong.
If he’d made it right, he would wait at the Crow’s Nest as indicated by his broadcast and BoneMan would find him, hopefully before the authorities tracked down the stolen Taurus.
If he’d misjudged BoneMan, however, he would wait at the Crow’s Nest in vain without having the luxury of leaving, just in case BoneMan did finally show.
He’d made his play; now it was BoneMan’s turn.