The Cornwalls Are Gone (Amy Cornwall #1)(6)

“Sure,” she says, and soon enough, the images of the cars and trucks are moving along—flick flick flick—like a silent film from the 1920s speeded up, and at the 2:46 p.m. mark I see our CR-V turn into Jackson Avenue, and I just nod and think, Okay, Tom’s home, and the flick flick flick goes on until—

A school bus stops, extends the Stop sign from the driver’s side, and when the bus moves away, there are four little shapes racing out of view, one with a pixie blond haircut, wearing a soccer uniform, and I must have gasped or made some sort of noise, because Sarah says, “Oh, do you want me to stop there?”

“No,” I say firmly. “Keep on going.”

And, thank God, I don’t have long to wait.



A red van shows up at the traffic light and I say, “There, right there.”

Sarah works the keyboard again. The view goes into normal time. In the movies you get to see the keyboard operator freeze the film, zoom in so you can see the license plate of the suspect vehicle, and sometimes you can even see the driver’s lips move and decipher what he’s saying.

This little Sunoco station is definitely not Hollywood. On the screen the van makes a left-hand turn onto Jackson Street and I catch some of the letters on the side: ABLE CARPET. It looks like it has Virginia license plates, but the numbers and letters are too fuzzy. I check the time.

Wait.

Per the video feed, the van comes back sixteen minutes later. There are two men in the front. Can’t tell if they’re Caucasian, Asian, African American, or any mixture thereof. I chew on my right thumbnail. My two loved ones are in the rear of this van. I’m positive.

The van makes a left and then disappears. I know the geography. The exit to I-95 is only about five minutes away.

That’s that.

I push the chair back and say, “Sarah, thank you so very much.”

She nods, looking quite serious. “Glad I could help. And I promise, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thanks,” I say. “One more favor? I need to use a restroom.”

Sarah says, “I’m not supposed to let customers use it…but this is important, right? Follow me.”



Six minutes later, at the rear of the service station, I’ve changed into civilian clothes—blue jeans, black turtleneck, short black leather jacket. I quickly walk to my Wrangler, lots of thoughts and plans bouncing around in my head.

I suddenly remember being with Tom on a warm night in McLean, walking off a fine restaurant meal, and as we went past a corner Walgreens, a man leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, smiled at us both and said something I didn’t understand.

Tom said, “Excuse me,” and walked back to the man, said something. The man said something back and went after Tom, and in a quick movement Tom made a boxing stance, and in one hard punch, the man was on the ground.

Tom later said, “He called you a whore in Farsi. I told him he shouldn’t have said that. You saw what happened.”

“I didn’t know you knew boxing.”

“For a while, I did.”

“Why did you stop?” I said.

“Every time I got hit in the face, I cried,” he said.

So I knew Tom would do his best to keep Denise and himself alive.

But it was up to me to get them safely free.

Near the Wrangler is a pump island for diesel, and four tractor-trailer trucks are lined up, refueling. I tug out the burner phone. This is my connection to the kidnappers, the ones who have upended my life, have stolen my husband and child, and who’ve put them in danger.

I go to a nearby tractor-trailer truck, belonging to Walmart. I shove the phone in a crack under the doors and go back to my Wrangler.

Earlier the kidnapper thought he had sent me on a mission.

He has.

Mine.

Not his.





CHAPTER 7



IN HIS years as a journalist, Tom Cornwall has been in some tight places: under artillery bombardment in a Kurdish peshmerga outpost in Syria, accidentally separated from a Filipino army patrol while they were hunting Abu Sayyaf terrorists in the jungles of Jolo Island, and in an armored-up Humvee convoy in Afghanistan when the lead vehicle did a flaming backflip after it ran over an IED.

In all of these close calls, Tom had one sustaining mantra: his circus, his monkey. He was in danger because that was his choice, his life, and if things went to shit, well, he’d be the only one bloodied out.

Sitting on the edge of a cot in a concrete cube somewhere, he sighs, rubs his head. Now he is in danger again, but now it is so terribly different.

He lifts his head. His daughter, Denise, is curled up on an identical cot, on the other side of the room. She’s barefoot, wearing black tights and an oversized sweatshirt from Epcot Center. She’s clutching a stuffed Tigger in her arms, and it’s been ten minutes since she last let out a sob.

Progress, of a sort.

She looks up and says, “What about Mister Banjo?”

Tom gets up and examines their quarters. A square room, made of light-green cinder blocks. Concrete ceiling with a small air vent. Concrete floor with a drain in the center. One metal door, leading out. No handle or doorknob on this side. Four lightbulbs dangling from black cords. A dial that can lower the lights but not turn them off. In the corner of the room, a metal sink and metal toilet.

That’s it.