The Cornwalls Are Gone (Amy Cornwall #1) - James Patterson Page 0,80

is the last time I ever have to remember this demonic series of numerals, and the phone is picked up on the first ring.

“Yes?”

“You know who this is,” I say. “I’m here at the little park, bandstand, and fountain.”

“So happy to hear from you, Captain Cornwall.”

“The feeling isn’t mutual,” I say. “Let’s make this quick. I have my weapon in my lap. Anybody approaches me I will shoot this old man next to me, all right?”

He chuckles. “With that deadly attitude, I’m surprised you’re not a general in your Army.”

“Give me time,” I say. “I need to talk to Tom, and I need to talk to Denise. Otherwise, this man is dead on this plaza.”

“For real?”

“Oh, yes, for real,” I say. “Besides getting me arrested, I’ll also scare a bunch of tourists.”

He says, “Fear is a useful thing. All right. I will follow your request. Hold on, please.”

I say, “Not too long,” but I’m talking to empty air.

I wait.

Look around.

The gate across the way opens up and a white Cadillac, with tinted windows, eases out. With the gate open, I see little areas of tended brush and trees, and a wide beach spotted with beach umbrellas and kids playing.

My caller comes back. “This will be on speakerphone, just so there’s no misunderstanding.”

I try to speak, but another male voice interrupts me.

“Amy?”

I put a fist to my mouth, trying so very hard not to sob in relief.

Tom feels light-headed and woozy, standing on a balcony, sun beating down, holding Denise’s hand. The air feels good, but he’s also up at a height, maybe five or six stories. The canvas bags have been pulled off their heads, and the man who’s been in charge is standing a few feet away, wearing a light-blue-and-white seersucker suit, a cell phone in his beefy right hand.

He says, “This will be on speakerphone, just so there’s no misunderstanding.”

The phone comes over to Tom, and he takes it, hand shaking, and brings it up near his mouth.

“Amy?”

A slight pause, and her voice comes right out through the speakerphone. “Oh, Tom…Tom, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, honest,” he says, ignoring the throbbing pain in his burnt arm, still covered with the bandage the Afghan doctor had put on him. “Denise is with me, too.”

“Let me talk to her, just for a moment.”

Tom lowers the phone, and Denise, her face as nearly bright as the sun, talks loudly into the phone. “Mommy, Mommy, are you here? Are you here to pick us up?”

“That’s right, hon, that’s right. Give me back to Daddy.”

Tom brings up the phone. “I’m back.”

“Good, good,” she says, her voice sounding so sweet and wonderful. “Tom, this is very important. What do you see?”

“What?”

“The scenery,” she snaps. “Tell me where you are, what you see.”

He looks to Pelayo, who offers him a slight nod. He’s happy that he can do what Amy asks, but he’s still humiliated at being under this man’s control.

“Ah…I’m somewhere in Florida, I’m sure. There’s a flagpole that’s flying the American flag and the Florida flag. I see the beach, the ocean…and on the other side, looks like a wide stretch of downtown…”

“Look at the downtown. What do you see?”

He leans over the balcony a bit. “There’s…a bandstand. And a fountain… Hey! There’s a black Jeep Wrangler. Is that you?”

The phone goes silent.

“Amy?”

I lose it for a long minute, just sobbing against my clenched fist.

I’ve made it.

My Tom and Denise are nearby, so very, very close.

The other man’s voice comes back onto the phone. “Satisfied?”

“I am,” Amy says.

“Very well. The time is now…five thirty p.m. Let’s make the exchange in exactly thirty minutes. Six p.m. on the dot. Is that satisfactory to you?”

“Why not now?”

“Because arrangements must be made,” the man says. “You’ve noticed there’s a gate nearby. The access code to the gate is one-two-three-two-one. Easy to recall, am I correct? Come into this little gated community and make a left. About a hundred meters down the drive is a store that sells women’s beachwear. It’s called Yucatan. Go into the store and there’s a package waiting for you.”

“What kind of package?”

“A bathing suit,” the man says, laughing. “A very, very skimpy bathing suit. Once you have that on, you will walk with your…guest, to a small park with four concrete benches. Stand by the closest bench. I will be there in exactly thirty minutes. If you’re not there…well, let’s not consider that, shall we?”

My breathing starts to quicken.

“All right,” I say. “Six p.m. I’ll be there. And you’ll be there with