Every Second. Rick Mofina

the block.”

      “What did you tell police?”

      “Well, last night Lacey didn’t come home at her usual time. I waited and waited until I got worried. So I got up and looked for her around the block because I thought that’s where she’d gone.”

      “What time was this?”

      “Oh, about two or two-thirty, I’m not sure.”

      “You went alone?”

      “This is a good neighborhood. I wasn’t afraid.”

      Gabe nudged Kate. Two men in suits had left the Selway house and were heading up the street, staring directly at Kate and Charlene Biddle.

      “What happened when you went looking for Lacey?” Kate asked.

      “When we got near the house there, Lacey was in the yard beside it. I called her, and she wouldn’t come—this stubborn cat has a mind of her own. I tiptoed into the yard to get her. When I did, I saw a van parked in the driveway.” Charlene nodded to the Fultons’ house. “And people were getting into it. It looked like two men were sort of...pushing a woman and smaller person into the van. It was all quiet and quick and then they drove off.”

      “Do you recall—” Kate glanced at the approaching men “—do you recall any details, like a license plate?”

      “I didn’t see anything clearly. It was dark. I know it was odd, but I thought it was people going home from a party, and a few of them were drunk, kidding around. I got Lacey and went home. Then this morning police came knocking on everyone’s door to move us out because of something happening, and so I told them what I saw. They wanted me to wait right here so I could talk to the detectives.”

      “Okay, thanks, Charlene.” Kate closed her notebook, turned to leave.

      “Hold up there!” A big-chested man, the older of the two, stepped into Kate’s space. “Who’re you?”

      “Kate Page, Newslead.” She held up her ID. “This is Gabe Atwater, Newslead.” Kate tried to read the badge hanging from the older man’s chain. “Who’re you guys?”

      “Detective Tilden, NYPD.”

      Kate glanced at the younger man, who had a Brad Pitt thing going.

      “Nick Varner, FBI. Over here, please.”

      The two men took Kate and Gabe aside to talk privately.

      “What’ve you got?” Kate opened her notebook, pen poised.

      “We’ve got a problem,” Tilden said.

      “What problem?”

      “Well, for one, we don’t want you talking to our witnesses before we do,” Tilden said.

      “What’d you mean? I’m exercising my right, freedom of the press.”

      “Exercise it carefully,” Tilden said.

      “Excuse me?”

      “We’ve got a very dangerous situation here, Ms. Page,” Varner said.

      “I kinda figured that, what with the SWAT team and the street sealed.”

      The grim-faced men said nothing.

      “Can you elaborate on dangerous?” Kate asked.

      “We’ll put out a release later,” Varner said.

      “Can you confirm that bombs were strapped to the Fultons?”

      “I told you, we’ll put out a press release.”

      “But you’re not denying that bombs were strapped to the family?”

      “I didn’t say that.”

      “Agent Varner, can we stop this ‘can’t confirm or deny’ game?”

      “Is this a game to you?”

      “No, of course not.”

      “Maybe before you go ahead and print anything, you should run it by us,” Tilden said.

      “You’re kidding, right?”

      The two men said nothing.

      “Look.” Kate stared at both of them. “Why don’t you guys do your job, and I’ll do mine,” she said, closing her notebook.

       15

      Somewhere in New York

      Lori Fulton opened her eyes.

      Her ears were pounding in time with her heart.

      The van had stopped hours ago and since then sleep had come in tortured snatches. Each time Lori woke, she realized that she was a prisoner in a nightmare.

      Billy was asleep, his head on her lap.

      They were sitting on the floor of the windowless van, backs against the reinforced wall that divided the cab from the rear. She could feel him trembling. They were still wearing the bomb vests. The tiny red light on each of their battery packs continued to blink.

      How much time do we have?

      Ever since they’d stopped, she hadn’t seen their captors. She had no idea where they were—she heard no sounds of the city. No traffic, no construction, no noise other than a few chirping birds.

      Did they abandon us?

      She didn’t know what time it was. Daylight seeped in through the van’s door frame, so she knew it was no longer night. Tape still sealed their mouths and their hands. Suddenly Lori chided herself—should’ve thought of this sooner—and raised her hands, working her fingers to pull the tape from her mouth. She drank in the cool air, welcomed it on her skin as she stretched her jaw.

      Her movements had awakened Billy and he sat up, blinking.

      “Shh.”

      She kissed his forehead, then slowly pulled the tape from his mouth. He took a deep breath.

      “Better?” she whispered.

      He nodded.

      Lori pulled off the tape around his wrists. His hands were still restrained with plastic handcuffs. Lori held out her wrists so Billy could pull off her tape. Plastic cuffs were locked on her, as well.

      She began gnawing on the cuffs, but it was futile, the plastic was too thick. She searched the van’s metal frame for a sharp edge to cut the plastic, but found none. She was afraid to try anything more—there was no telling what might set off the bomb vest—but she couldn’t give up.

      She cocked her ears, listening for anyone outside the van, and then very carefully moved to the van’s side door, took hold of the handle and pulled. It refused to move. She turned to the cab. The dividing wall was solid, floor to ceiling. Taking great care, Lori crawled to the van’s rear and tried that door, pulling on the handle with every ounce of strength she had.

      No use.

      They were locked inside.

      She tried to think of a way to take off the vest. She could slide it over her head. Or over her shoulder, shimmy it down and step out of it. The problem was she couldn’t open the front. It was zippered, Velcroed and had wires running across the opening.

      It was definitely too risky to start pulling and twisting at it. Besides, she’d overlooked the fact her wrists were locked together.

      Then, for a brief moment, she wondered if the vests were real. It was obviously dangerous to drive around in a van with someone wearing a bomb, but maybe they were confident that the vests wouldn’t detonate unless they dialed the programmed cell phone. Still...convincing someone you’d strapped a suicide vest on them was a good way to get them to do whatever you wanted—even if the bombs weren’t real.