Rage of Angels
“Joshua!” It was a scream. “Mrs. Mackey!”
Jennifer ran from room to room, switching on all the lights and calling out their names, her heart pounding so hard that it was difficult for her to breathe. She raced up the stairs to Joshua’s bedroom. His bed had been slept in, but it was empty.
Jennifer searched every room in the house, then raced downstairs, her mind numb. Frank Jackson must have known all along where she lived. He had followed her home one night from her office or after she left the service station. He had taken Joshua and he was going to kill him to punish her.
She was passing the laundry room when she heard a faint scrabbling sound coming from the closet. Jennifer moved toward the closed door slowly and pulled it open. It was black inside.
A voice whimpered, “Please don’t hurt me any more.”
Jennifer turned on the light. Mrs. Mackey was lying on the floor, her hands and feet tightly bound with wire. She was only half-conscious.
Jennifer quickly knelt beside her. “Mrs. Mackey!”
The older woman looked up at Jennifer and her eyes began to focus.
“He took Joshua.” She began to sob.
As gently as she could, Jennifer untwisted the wire that was cutting into Mrs. Mackey’s arms and legs. They were raw and bleeding. Jennifer helped the housekeeper to her feet.
Mrs. Mackey cried hysterically. “I c-couldn’t stop him. I t-tried. I—”
The sound of the telephone cut into the room. The two women were instantly silenced. The telephone rang again and again, and somehow it had an evil sound. Jennifer walked over to it and picked it up.
The voice said, “I just wanted to make sure you got home all right.”
“Where is my son?”
“He is a beautiful boy, isn’t he?” the voice asked.
“Please! I’ll do anything. Anything you like!”
“You’ve already done everything, Mrs. Parker.”
“No, please!” She was sobbing helplessly.
“I like to hear you cry,” the voice whispered. “You’ll get your son back, Mrs. Parker. Read tomorrow’s papers.”
And the line went dead.
Jennifer stood there, fighting against the faintness, trying to think. Frank Jackson had said, “He is a beautiful boy, isn’t he?” That could mean Joshua was still alive. Otherwise, wouldn’t he have said was beautiful? She knew she was simply playing games with words, trying to keep her sanity. She had to do something quickly.
Her first impulse was to telephone Adam, ask him to help. It was his son who had been kidnapped, his son who was going to be killed. But she knew there was nothing Adam could do. He was two hundred and thirty-five miles away. She had only two choices: One was to call Robert Di Silva, tell him what had happened and ask him to throw out a dragnet to try to catch Frank Jackson. Oh, God, that will take too long!
The second choice was the FBI. They were trained to handle kidnappings. The problem was that this was not like other kidnapping. There would be no ransom note for them to trace, no chance to try to trap Frank Jackson and save Joshua’s life. The FBI moved according to its own strict ritual. It would not be of any help in this instance. She had to decide quickly…while Joshua was still alive. Robert Di Silva or the FBI. It was difficult to think.
She took a deep breath and made her decision. She looked up a telephone number. Her fingers were trembling so badly she had to dial the number three times before she got it right.
When a man answered, Jennifer said, “I want to speak to Michael Moretti.”
36
“Sorry, lady. This is Tony’s Place. I don’t know no Mike Moretti.”
“Wait!” Jennifer screamed. “Don’t hang up!” She forced a calmness into her voice. “This is urgent. I’m a—a friend of his. My name is Jennifer Parker. I need to talk to him right away.”
“Look, lady, I said—”
“Give him my name and this telephone number.”
She gave him the number. Jennifer was beginning to stutter so badly she could hardly speak. “T-t-tell him—”
The line went dead.
Numbly, Jennifer replaced the receiver. She was back to one of her first two choices. Or both of them. There was no reason why Robert Di Silva and the FBI could not join forces to try to find Joshua. The thing that was driving her mad was that she knew how little chance they would have of finding Frank Jackson. There was no time. Read tomorrow’s papers. There was a finality about his last words that made Jennifer certain he would not telephone her again, would not give anyone a chance to trace him. But she had to do something. She would try Di Silva. She reached for the telephone again. It rang as she touched it, startling her.
“This is Michael Moretti.”
“Michael! Oh, Michael, help me, please! I—” She began to sob uncontrollably. She dropped the telephone, then picked it up again quickly, terrified he had hung up. “Michael?”
“I’m here.” His voice was calm. “Get hold of yourself and tell me what’s wrong.”
“I—I’ll—” She took in quick, deep breaths, trying to stop the trembling. “It’s my son, Joshua. He’s—he’s been kidnapped. They’re going to—kill him.”
“Do you know who took him?”
“Y-yes. His name is F-Frank Jackson.” Her heart was pounding.
“Tell me what happened.” His voice was quiet and confident.
Jennifer forced herself to talk slowly, recounting the sequence of events.
“Can you describe what Jackson looks like?”