Nick

Fucking cops—unbelievable!

I showed them everything I had—Bentivoglio on Lina’s phone, the location from her GPS, but all I got was the runaround. “All that proves is she’s with her boyfriend.” “Women often go back to abusive partners. I’d say it’s...at least fifty percent of the time. Maybe more like eighty.” “How’d you get this, anyway? You some kind of hacker, looking through people’s phones?”

Going over their heads wasn’t nearly as effective as it is on TV. Some bored-sounding chief called me back around noon, promising he’d get the local police to swing by the address I’d found. Or see if he could get them to. So... Someone’ll maybe put in a minimal effort. Not quite the result I’d anticipated.

So, fine. Fine. I’ll go myself. If you want something done right....

Can I do this right, though? I’m the first to admit I’m a city slicker, dyed in the wool. Aside from my yearly camping trips with Katie, the closest I get to nature is vacuuming up the occasional spider.

Screw it. They’re in Jersey, not the Appalachian Mountains. Kind of a rural part of Jersey, but, hell, they’ve got cell service. What’s the worst that could happen within range of a cell tower?

I check in on Katie. She’s flopped out on the living room floor, homework spread around her. She barely looks up when I let her know I’m heading out.

“Hey. I might be back late. What are you doing for dinner?”

That earns me a bored glance, at least. “Probably going to Cindy’s. Or I’ll have Emily make me something.”

Normally, I’d remind her the housekeeper isn’t her personal chef, but I’m already halfway out the door. Now I’ve got a plan, there’s a rising sense of urgency spurring me on. Wasting the entire morning on the cops was bad enough. Stopping to lecture Katie on something I know she just said to annoy me isn’t a good use of my time.

The drive out to Elsinboro’s a depressing one. It’s not exactly Deliverance country, but for someone like me, it might as well be. I’ve never been much for the country. Don’t even have a place in the Hamptons. It’s not so bad in summer, when everything’s green and alive, but there’s something creepy about bare branches grasping at a gray sky. It’s too much of a—a visual representation of depression. Desolate.

Then, there’s the whole question of what I’m going to do when I get there. A physical confrontation doesn’t seem like a great idea. Too many things could go wrong. He could have a knife. Or a gun. Lina could get in the middle. He could somehow twist things around so I end up in prison. Technically, I am the one trespassing.

But the alternative is to do nothing. Can’t do that.

I figure I’ll park a mile or so out, walk up on the house. Google Earth gave me a pretty good look at the area. There’s a long dirt road, plenty of trees—if I stick to the woods, I should be able to creep right up without being seen. Then, it’ll just be a matter of gathering evidence. A picture of her in the house? No. Not enough. Doesn’t prove she’s there against her will.

Maybe I can do a video. Catch him threatening her on tape.

Not sure I could stand and watch that, and not do anything.

No. Got to play this smart. It’ll only go worse for her if I barge in half-cocked.

I almost miss my turnoff, playing out increasingly unlikely rescue scenarios in my head, trying to plan for every contingency. It’s a spray of fresh dirt at the intersection ahead that jolts me back to reality. Someone’s taken this turn recently, and too fast.

I want to put the pedal to the metal myself. But I force myself to take the turn at a more sedate pace, and slow to a crawl as my odometer marks off another mile. Any closer, and I’ll come within earshot. It’s quiet out here—I feel almost like I’m missing a sense, without the city noise to keep my ears busy.

I pull into what might once have been a driveway and kill the engine. Even taking pains to close it gently, the thud of the door makes me wince. Feels like sound could carry forever out here.

That’s nonsense, though. I don’t have time for nonsense. I lock up, flinching again at the cheery peep-peep, and set off at a jog through the woods. Which, I’ve got to say, is also twice as awkward as I expected. The ground’s bumpy under the trees, and there’s all kinds of stuff underfoot: dead branches, rotting logs, a ton of tangling viney crap—the worst.

I make an executive decision to get out of the woods till the house is in sight. Yeah, if Joe decides to go for a walk, I’ll be the first thing he’ll see coming around the corner... But how likely is he to take a nice stroll in the woods, with a hostage back home? I’ll chance it.

Once I’m free of the trees, it’s a quick jog to the bend. That’s when I realize, with a sinking feeling, there’s no need to be sneaky. I’m looking at an empty house: no car out front, door swinging open. That’s the thump-thump-thump I’ve been hearing for the last fifty yards: the wind banging the screen door against the frame.

I head up there anyway. Someone was here: there are fresh tire tracks in the dirt, and the smell of wet paint meets me at the porch. The source soon becomes clear: someone’s been fixing up the living room. There’s a pile of old wallpaper discarded in the middle of the room, and someone’s given the wall underneath a fresh coat without sanding it down. It’s the lumpiest, most depressing paint job I’ve ever seen. Even I wouldn’t do that.

They’ve started on the kitchen, as well. Looks like they’ve been trying to fix the plumbing: the cabinet under the sink is open, and there’s a section of pipe on the floor. But that’s not what stands out to me. No—that’d be a phone, Lina’s phone, smashed and abandoned on the table.

When I reach for the phone, I spot a knife on the floor, under the table. A knife, but no blood. I kneel for a closer look. There’s rope fibers on and around the blade, like someone tried to cut themselves free. Lina....

It hits me: this is my fault. I was about as subtle as a ten-ton hammer. I could’ve been sneakier, taking control of the phone—didn’t have to rub it in his face. What was I thinking, bragging like an asshole? I know where you are.

And now I don’t.

Way to go, genius.

Or maybe....

A thought occurs to me. If the phone’s not bricked, if it’s just the display, I can still....

I snatch up the phone and barrel out of there at a dead sprint. I’m back at my car, tapping away at my laptop, in record time—who knew I could run a four-minute mile? Nothing happens when I try to bring up the phone interface. My heart plummets to my boots, but only for a moment. I’m not connected to the Internet. Of course I’m fucking not. No civilization, no wifi. Obviously.

Twenty minutes of reckless driving gets me in range of someone’s unsecured connection. Another minute, and—miracle of miracles—I’m in. Lina’s display doesn’t even flicker—that screen is toast—but on my computer, I can see it just fine. And I can see Joe’s last browser activity: he Mapquested some campground, half an hour past the house.

I pull a decidedly illegal U-ey, and I’m back in business.

It doesn’t occur to me to stop and think about whether this is a good idea. Lina’s out there somewhere, probably cold and scared. I’m going after her. Simple as that.