CHAPTER 62
The apartment, situated in an upscale neighborhood of Boston not far from Kenmore Square, was a nicely maintained five-story brownstone fronted by a convex awning with a green cover. Morning sunshine turned the day warm, triggering the scent of blossoms that sweetened the air. Police barricades sectioned off four surrounding city blocks. Helicopters buzzed the skies with the uneven trajectory of flying insects. Police ordered a mandatory evacuation of all residents living in the two adjacent apartment buildings and those directly across the street. Ambulances and fire trucks were called in to assist with the evacuation effort. Most everyone else, it seemed, went to the rooftops to get a bird’s eye view of all the commotion happening at street level.
Clegg drove us to the site and got me acclimated to the massive and awe-inspiring law enforcement response.
“We’ve got SWAT on the rooftops and snipers in pretty much every place with a clear line of sight for a kill shot,” he said. “We’re using infrared thermography to see what’s happening inside the apartment, but I don’t think we’ve picked up anything yet. He could have Ruby in a back room, out of range for our equipment.”
“What now?” I said.
“Now we wait until he calls.”
“I hate the waiting game.”
“Me too,” Clegg said.
Somebody I didn’t know came over and whispered something I couldn’t hear into Clegg’s ear.
“I’ll be right back,” Clegg said, leaving me to join Higgins and Brenner, who were camped out nearby. They exchanged words, with Clegg nodding a lot, and the next thing I knew, Clegg was vanishing within a cloud of SWAT.
News media had been barred from flying in the restricted airspace, but that didn’t stop them from congregating at every barrier. I might have been at the epicenter of this gargantuan calamity, but to them I remained a person unknown. A stranger among law enforcement, dressed in civilian clothes—grimy and disgusting jeans topped by a ripped and faded blue T-shirt. For the Fiend’s benefit, my appearance was that of a man who had just murdered someone and dumped his body in the woods. Whoever I was, I must have looked to the media like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.
Gant came over to me, Kaminski too, both wanting to know how I was holding up.
“I’m hanging in there,” I said, lying. In truth, besides being filthy, I was exhausted, sick, worried, sick with worry, and horrified by what was taking place. “I’m amazed at the size of this operation,” I added, wanting them to know how much I appreciated all the effort.
“We don’t know what’s going to happen,” Gant said. “All we know is that from this guy, you can expect anything.”
Before I could respond, my cell phone rang.
It took a lot of hushing and gesturing to settle everyone down, but soon enough the only sound that could be heard was the helicopter rotors whipping above my head and the ringing of my phone. I answered the call.
“Hi ya, John. Glad you could make it.” That voice—so familiar and still able to chill my soul.
“Where’s Ruby?” I said, my voice cracking.
“She’s inside. I’m not lying to you.”
“Then let me come in and get her.”
“Well, that’s the problem. You see, the game isn’t over yet. You’ve got one more task to perform. One more test of your criminal skills. Being criminal is not just about getting away with it. You have to be able to get in before you can get away. I should warn you, John, you can’t keep your greatest fear locked up forever. The time has come to pick it open.”
“Tell me! Tell me what you want!”
“I’m sorry, John, but I need to talk to the person in charge. Right now. Do it, now.”
Reluctantly, I handed the phone to Higgins. He put the phone to his ear. It took about five seconds for Higgins to develop the look of a seasick mariner. Twenty seconds and I thought he might need oxygen. Forty and he nodded dully. Sixty and he handed the phone back to me, his color nearly gone. There was nobody on the line.
“What’s going on?” I asked him. “What’s happening?”
“Watch,” Higgins said, pointing to the windows of apartment 7E. The curtains blocking the view into the apartment parted. I saw a figure appear—a man, I believed, though sun and glare kept his identity a mystery.
Higgins picked up his bullhorn. “Hold your fire!” he shouted. “Do not, I repeat, do not open fire!”
Higgins’s command must have been radioed around, because I didn’t hear the click of a chamber being loaded. The window lifted, inch by grueling inch.
Who was opening the window? Where was Ruby? Why had Higgins ordered his task force not to fire? What the hell was going on?
The figure inside the apartment stooped to get low, as if preparing to climb out the window and onto the ledge. And then I realized that was exactly what he was doing. Slowly, methodically, the man slid out through the open window, one leg followed by another, hands next, spreading for leverage, torso bending to make room, head poking out to survey his terrifying surroundings. The ledge had to be no more than a foot and a half wide. The man wore something around his body—a vest of some sort with wires sticking out. Carefully the man unfurled his trembling body, rising slowly into a standing position, knees buckling, back pressed up tight against the brick wall.
Now I could see him clearly. Henry Dobson, shaking, stood on the ledge of the building, wearing a vest strapped with what had to be explosives of some sort. He looked like a suicide bomber.
Dobson tossed something from his hand. Keys, attached to a ring, dropped about seventy feet in a second and clattered on the pavement. Four officers pounced on the keys as if they might get up and run away. Higgins was looking through his binoculars when I heard him say to one of his lieutenants, “There’s a lock on the vest. Just like he said.”
That’s when I knew what was coming next. I knew it without a doubt.
And it all made perfect sense to me.