2:25 p.m.
2 hours until the gloaming
Sergeant Brandon Walker, or Radar as he preferred to be called by his friends, was at his desk making calls to Basque’s work associates at Hathaway amp; Erikson, trying to find out if anyone knew where he’d gone this afternoon, when one of the officers who worked the front lobby walked up to his desk carrying a package the size of a shoebox.
“This came for you. It was left in the lobby. No idea who it’s from.” He shook the box a little and there was a soft, dull thud as whatever was inside it bumped against the sides of the box. “You want me to trash it?”
“No. I’ll take it.”
Radar accepted the package and the other officer returned downstairs.
Radar studied it.
The box was wrapped in what appeared to be the same type of butcher paper that was left in the boxcar where Adele Westin was found. Words on the top: “Attn. Sergeant Walker. Open at once.” No return address.
He flipped it over.
Another note, written neatly in black Magic Marker: “This is from the person on the phone.”
Radar blinked, looked around the room.
A moment later his desk phone rang. He stared at it unbelievingly, then at the words on the package.
The phone rang again.
He picked up. “Yes?”
“Did it arrive yet?”
“Did what arrive?”
“The evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“How serious I am.” The voice was muffled but somehow familiar. Radar tried his hardest but couldn’t identify it.
“Who is this?”
“I’m the one who sent you the box. Open it up.”
“First tell me who I’m speaking to.”
“Open the box, Radar.”
Radar?
He called you Radar.
He knows you!
Radar waved for Ralph Hawkins, who was seated at a nearby desk, to trace the call. He knew it’d take him a little while to get down to the tech room and put that into play, and he wasn’t at all sure he’d be able to keep this guy on the line long enough, but it was worth a try.
“Open the box,” the man repeated.
Ralph left, walking briskly down the hallway.
“What’s in it?”
“Something from your son.”
Radar felt a deep tremor ripple through him.
Thoughts, too many thoughts, raced through his mind. Thoughts of the case and what the abductor of the two women had done-he kidnaps family members, makes a demand of a loved one, amputates extremities of his captives.
A finger.
Hands.
He was about to cut off both Adele’s hands and feet when Pat and Ralph arrived at the train yard.
Radar stared at the box, then felt the edges of it for a clue as to what might be inside.
Yeah, he could tell. It was a shoebox alright.
He felt himself go weak as he positioned himself in his chair and placed the phone receiver between his shoulder and his ear. He flicked out the blade of the pocketknife from his drawer, then slipped it through the butcher paper, careful not to push it in too far.
This can’t be happening. This cannot be what it seems.
He slid the blade along the edge of the box’s lid.
Heart hammering, mind spinning.
A moment later he finished. The lid was free.
He stared at the box. All he had to do was open it up.
He set down the knife. Cradled the box gently on his lap. The man on the other end of the line was quiet, waiting for his reaction.
Radar felt a small sweep of nausea as he reached for the lid.
And opened the shoebox.