The hostage group was there in the farmhouse living room. They were staring at me, clearly frightened, but no one was hurt. I did a quick count: sixteen women, two children, and the driver. All alive. No one punished because we’d broken the rules.
“The kidnappers?” I asked in a low voice. “Are any of them still here?”
A dark-haired woman stepped forward and spoke. “They left sentries around the house. There’s one man by the elm tree in front.”
“Not anymore. We didn’t see any others,” Betsey told the group. “Everybody stay right here while we look around.”
FBI agents were inside and spreading out all over the house. Some of the hostages began to cry when they realized they weren’t going to die, that they’d finally been rescued.
“They said we’d be killed if we tried to leave the house before tomorrow morning. They told us about the Buccieri and Casselman families,” a tall, dark-haired woman said between sobs. Her name was Mary Jordan and she’d been in charge of the tour group.
We did a careful search of the house — no one else was there. There wasn’t any obvious evidence, but the technicians would be here soon. The tour bus had already been found in a shed on the former army base.
After half an hour or so, Mrs. Morris came waddling through the front door. A couple of agents were futilely trying to stop her. The local woman’s appearance was an almost comical punctuation to the stress of the last several hours. “Why did you hit old Bud O’Mara? He’s just a nice fella, works at the truck stop. Bud said he was paid to stand around and wait. Got all of a hundred bucks for the dent in his skull. He’s harmless, Bud is.”
An odd and exhilarating thing happened as several rescue vehicles finally arrived. The hostages started to clap and to cheer. We’d come for them; we hadn’t let them die.
But I knew otherwise: For some reason, the Mastermind hadn’t wanted them to die.
Part Four
HIT AND RUN
Chapter 69
OF COURSE, the case continued to be a full-blown knock-down-drag-out media event. The press had learned about the existence of a “Mastermind,” and it made for sensational headlines. A picture of the Buccieri boy, one of the first victims, was the featured art in story after story. I had begun seeing the little boy’s face in my dreams.
I was working twelve- and sixteen-hour days. The Washington bank robber named Mitchell Brand was still high on the list of FBI suspects. He had been up on the wall of suspects for over a week. We hadn’t been able to locate Brand, but he fit the profile. Meanwhile, crime-scene investigators covered the money pickup site, combing it for evidence. FBI technicians went over every square inch of the Browne farmhouse. Traces of theatrical makeup were found in the sink of the farmhouse. I talked to several hostages, and they supported the idea that the kidnappers might have worn makeup, wigs, and possibly lifts in their shoes.
Sampson and I worked in Washington the first two days. MetroHartford had offered a million-dollar reward for information leading to the capture of the men involved in the crime. The reward was aimed at the general public, but also at anyone involved in the robbery whose take was less than the reward being offered.
The search for the bank robber Mitchell Brand was also centered in Washington. Brand was a thirty-year-old black man who was suspected in half a dozen robberies, but who had never been officially charged and suddenly had gone underground. Once upon a time he had been an army sergeant in Desert Storm. Brand was known to be violent. According to his army records, he had an IQ over one-fifty.
A mountain of evidence was being collected, but the notoriety of the case was also working against us. The phone calls and faxes offering tips never stopped coming at the FBI field office. Suddenly, there were hundreds of leads to follow up. I wondered if the Mastermind was still working against us.
The second night after the MetroHartford kidnapping, Sampson showed up at the house around eleven. I had just gotten there myself. I grabbed a couple of cold beers and we talked out on the sunporch more or less like civilized adults.
“I was hoping to see the little prince tonight,” Sampson said as we sat down.
“He’s coming here to live with us.” I told John the latest news. Some of it, anyw
ay.
He broke into a broad smile, his teeth as large and white as piano keys. “That’s great news, sugar. I assume Ms. Christine is coming as part of the package.”
I shook my head. “No, she isn’t, John. She’s never gotten over what happened with Geoffrey Shafer. She’s still afraid for her life, for all of our lives. She doesn’t want to see me anymore. It’s over between us.”
Sampson just stared at me. “You two were so good together. I don’t buy it, sugar.”
“I didn’t, either. Not for months. I offered to leave police work and I guess I would have. Christine told me it wouldn’t matter.”
I stared into my friend’s eyes. “I’ve lost her, John. I’m trying to move on. It breaks my heart.”
Chapter 70
MY BEEPER went off late the following night at the house. It was Sampson. “All hell is breaking loose,” he said. “Seriously, Alex.”
“Where are you?” I asked.