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“I wouldn’t even ask you, Mike, but he has a hostage. He says he’s going to kill him in another five minutes if we don’t get you.”
“Of course he does,” I said. “OK. I guess.”
Downey took me over to the desk and sat me in front of a computer monitor. I took a deep breath when I saw the minimized Skype tab. I still didn’t like this. I had a sick feeling that there was something seriously wrong. Something we’d overlooked.
A tech hit a button, and then Perrine was there. He was sitting in a beanbag chair next to a small, wide-eyed Mexican man who had tape over his wrists and ankles and mouth.
There was some kind of metal wall behind them. They were in a van, I realized. Perrine lifted a tennis ball and bounced it off the floor and wall of the van beside the camera and then caught it again.
When the hostage looked up, I saw his Roman collar. He was a priest! Perrine was holding a young priest hostage!
“Detective!” Perrine bellowed as he glanced at the screen. “Detective, there you are, at long last. I was wondering if you’d ever show up. You’re looking tired. Having trouble sleeping, are we? Seriously, how have you been? How are the kids?”
I wanted to tell the arrogant scumbag to go screw himself, but I couldn’t stop looking at the priest. The terror and pleading in his eyes. He was slight, in his early thirties. My heart went out to him. I needed to save this man’s life.
“I’m here, Manuel,” I said. “So you can let that poor man go now, OK?”
“Let him go? Good idea, Detective,” Perrine said, standing.
The drug lord stepped offscreen. There was a sliding sound as the metal wall behind the priest moved sideways to reveal a blurring guardrail, the shoulder of a road, passing trees.
“No!” I yelled as Perrine, coming back into the frame, reared up his heel and booted the priest in the chest.
The man flew backward immediately out the van door, into the darkness. Without a cry. Without a sound. The man was just gone.
CHAPTER 82
DEAR GOD, I THOUGHT, feeling dizzy in the cramped, suddenly too-hot office. Dear God.
I watched as Perrine slid the door shut with a bang. He dusted off his hands as he plopped himself back down in the beanbag chair. He lifted the tennis ball and bounced it off the floor and wall of the van again.
“Now, where were we?” he said, catching the ball. “Oh, yes. Your kids. How is the law-enforcement version of the Duggar familia?”
“You bastard,” I said.
“Mike, Mike. Please,” Perrine said. “Do not mourn. That priest is in a better place now. He has gone to his God. You know, like your friend. What was his name? Hughie?”
He was taunting me now. Trying to get to me. He was. I wanted to smash the screen with my fist, but I couldn’t. I took a breath and refused to give him what he wanted.
“That’s true,” I said calmly. “Good point, Manuel. Hughie’s gone to God.”
I paused as I leaned in closer to the computer’s camera.
“Just like your wife, Manuel. No, wait. I made a mistake. How could she be with God? I sent that bitch directly to hell.”
Perrine hurled the ball against the wall and didn’t bother catching it this time. He stood up and walked over to the camera until his face filled the screen.
“I have one more thing to sho
w you, Bennett. My men are sending it to you right now. If you have any popcorn available, I advise you to get it popping and pull up a seat. You’re going to like this, Mike. I know I will. We can talk after. Maybe when it’s over, we’ll trade notes. But if you don’t feel like talking, that’s OK, too. I’ll understand. You probably won’t be in the mood. Au revoir.”
The screen went blank.
“Wait,” I said to Agent Downey. “What in the hell is he talking about? He’s sending something else? What is it? Where is it?”
“Something’s coming in now. It’s another Skype request,” a tech said, clicking a button.
The first thing I noticed about the footage on the screen that opened up was that it was from a night-vision camera. It was showing an empty field. The grainy image reminded me of a black-and-white TV image, only with dark green instead of black, and light green instead of white.
