Along came the spider

Chapter 77

OBERT FISHENAUER was a supervisor at Fallston Prison. Today, he thought, that was a very good thing. Fishenauer believed that he just might know where the ten million dollars in kidnap money was bidden. At least a large part of the ransom. He was going to take a little peekaboo right now.

He also had a pretty good idea that Gary Soneji/ Murphy was still messing with everybody’s bead. Big time. And nonstop.

As Fishenauer drove his Pontiac Firebird down Route 50 in Maryland, a host of questions was circulating through his head. Was Soneji/Murphy the kidnapper? Did he really know where the ransom money was? Or was Gary Soneji/Murphy full of shit? Just one more tutti-frutti nut case out at Fallston.

Fishenauer figured he would know everything pretty soon. Another few miles of state road, and he’d know more than anybody, except for Soneji/Murphy himself.



The turnoff was the seldom-used back way into the old farm. The road was almost completely gone now. Fishenauer saw this as he made the right turn off the main highway.

Cattails and sunflowers grew the length of what had obviously once been a road. There weren’t even wheel ruts in the crusted-over dirt.

The vegetation was knocked down. Someone had come crashing through here in the past few months. Was it the FBI and local police? They had probably searched the farmhouse grounds a dozen times.

But had they searched the grounds of the deserted farm well enough? Robert Fishenauer wondered to himself. That was the tenmillion-dollar question now, wasn’t it?

Around five-thirty in the afternoon, Fishenauer pulled his dusty red Firebird up alongside a dilapidated garage just to the left of the main farmhouse. The adrenaline was really pumping now. Nothing like a treasure hunt to get the juices flowing.

Gary had raved about how Bruno Hauptmann had hidden part of the Lindbergh ransom in his garage in New York City. Hauptmann had been trained as a carpenter, and he’d built a secret compartment for the money into a wall in his garage.

Gary said he’d done something like that out at the old farm in Maryland. He’d sworn it was the truth, and that the FBI would never find it.

Fishenauer switched off the Firebird’s rumbling engine. The sudden quiet was eerie. The old house sure looked deserted, and very creepy. It reminded him of a movie called.The Night of the Living Dead. Except that he was staffing in this creepy-crawler. i Weeds were growing everywhere, even springing out of the roof of the garage. Water stains ran down the sides of the garage. “Well, Gary-boy, let’s see if you’re completely full of shit. I hope to hell you’re not.” Robert Fishenauer took a deep breath and climbed out of his low-slung car He’d already figured out what he would say if he got nailed here. He’d just say that Gary had told him where he’d buried Maggie Rose Dunne. But Fishenauer had figured it was only some of his crazy talk. Still, it had gnawed at him. i So now here he was in Creepsville, Maryland, checking it out. Actually, he felt dumb. He also felt kind of bad, guilty, but he had to check this one for himself. Had to, man. This was his personal tenmillion-dollar i lottery. He had his ticket. Maybe he was about to find out where little Maggie Rose Dunne was buried. Jesus, he hoped not. Or maybe it was the buried treasure that Gary had promised him. He and Gary-boy had talked a lot, for hours at a time, back at the hole. Gary loved to talk about his exploits. His baby, as he called the kidnapping caper. His “perfect” crime. Right! So “perfect” he was serving life plus in a niax-security prison for the criminally insane. And here Robert Fishenauer was, right at the moldy front door into Creepsville. The scene of the crime, as they say.

There was a badly rusted metal latch on the door. Fishenauer slipped on a pair of winter golf gloveshard to explain those if he got caught snooping out here. He flipped up the



door latch. He had to pull the door hard toward him through the thick overgrowth. Flashlight time. He took out his lamp and turned it on full blast. Gary said he’d find the money on the right side of the garage, the far right corner, to be exact.

A lot of old, broken-down farm machines lay all around the garage. Cobwebs stuck against his face and neck as he walked forward. The strong smell of decay was on everything.

Halfway into the garage, Fishenauer stopped and turned around. He stared out the open door, and listened for what must have been a full ninety seconds.

He heard a jet plane somewhere off in the distance. There was no other sound. He sure hoped there was no one else around.

How long could the FBI afford to watch a deserted farm? Not almost two years after the kidnapping!

Natisfied that he was alone, Fishenauer continued to the back of the garage. Once he was there, he started to work. He pulled a sturdy old workbench over-Gary had said the bench would be there. He’d seen by now that Gary had described the place in pretty amazing and accurate detail. Gary’d said where every broken piece of machinery lay. He’d told Fishenauer the exact location of just about every slat of wood in the rotting garage walls. Standing on the old workbench, Fishenauer began to

430 James Patterson pull away old boards, up where the garage roof met the wall. There was a space back there. Just like Gary said there was.<p>

Fishenauer aimed his flashlight into the hole in the wall. There it was, part of the ransom money that Gary Soneji/Murphy wasn’t supposed to have. He couldn’t believe his eyes. A stack of money was right there in the garage walls.