Every Second

“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.

Then Lori remembered how Thorne and the others were careful to place the snow tires near them, creating a makeshift blast mat, and that was enough to convince her the vests were real. She rejected any idea of tampering with them. She wasn’t going to gamble with her son’s life.

“Mom?” Billy whispered.

“Shh, honey.”

“Maybe we should yell and scream for help?”

Lori considered it as she shifted next to him.

“That could bring the men right back to us.” Lori brushed his hair.

“Mom, I couldn’t see Sam. What happened to Sam?”

“Shh. I bet he got out through his door. I think I forgot to lock it. You know he’s a big baby around strangers, so he probably ran over to Ward and Violet’s house.”

“Do you think Dad’s going to bring help?”

“We can pray he does. Don’t worry, sweetie. Someone will help us, or we’ll help ourselves. We’ll think of something.”

But what?

A new wave of panic began rippling in the pit of Lori’s stomach. As her eyes swept the van’s interior, she thought of the man named Thorne and what he’d spat at her.

“You deserve what’s going to happen.”

Lori didn’t understand what he’d meant. She hadn’t recognized any of their voices, their mannerisms, their body types. Nothing. So who were they, and why did they talk as if they knew her?

They seemed young, and she wondered if they were military types—experts in explosives, maybe?

But why us?

There were plenty of other, bigger banks in the city they could have chosen. What made them choose Dan’s? The thought of Dan had her stomach roiling again—shouldn’t he have gotten them their money by now? Lori held back her tears, remembering how they’d been arguing for the past few days. All because she’d had a glass of wine at the Coopers’ party because she thought she could handle it.

Dan hadn’t said anything; it was just a look that he’d given her. One that had told her she’d let him down. She’d been hurt by it and lashed back at him when they were alone.

“Get off my back! I don’t need you to babysit me anymore!”

But the truth of it was, she knew he was watching out for her, taking care of her. After all she’d put him through, after Tim, after everything. Dan always stood by her. Always had her back.

The last thing he’d said to her before they’d been separated: “Lori, did they hurt you?”

Oh, God, Dan, I’m so sorry. What if I never see you again, never have the chance to tell you that I love you?

Lori searched the ceiling, trying not to lose control in front of her son.

What did they do with you, Dan?

Lori brushed Billy’s hair, thinking back to having been driven around in the night. They’d been on the road for hours—it must have been hundreds of miles—but how would she know if they’d only gone in circles to confuse her?

She tried to remember if she heard the hum of expressways, the rhythmic clicking of a bridge or the echoing of a tunnel. But it was useless. She had no idea where they might be.

Holding Billy next to her, Lori watched the red lights blinking on the bomb vests. She’d seen videos on news reports of suicide bombers—“We caution you, the images you are about to see are graphic and disturbing”—she’d seen how they obliterated a human being, and those images pushed her back through time to when she was...sitting in the street covered with Tim’s blood, helpless to do anything...

The memory of that night anguished her.

Lori wanted to pray, but Thorne’s words loomed over her.

“You deserve what’s going to happen to you.”

Billy lifted his head.

“Mom?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Listen!”

The sound of someone approaching the van grew louder.

16

Roseoak Park, New York

Like a band of protective angels, the group had encircled two distraught women.

Kate Page counted seven women dressed in jackets, skirt suits and blazers, hugging their two troubled friends and looking around worriedly, as if searching for answers to what had befallen Branch 487 of SkyNational Trust Banking.

Some of them were smoking. It must’ve been the reason they were now outside, gathered at one end of the parking lot, deep in the corral of emergency vehicles.

Kate heard Gabe’s camera clicking as he shot frame after frame.

They’d come directly from the Fulton house to the branch. Kate had to find out what exactly had taken place in the bank this morning.

How does an upstanding man like Dan Fulton come to rob his own branch with bombs strapped to him and his family? What’s the driving force behind this?

Kate deduced that the women clustered at the far side of the lot were bank employees. The two upset women they were consoling had to be staff members who’d been present when Fulton took the money.

Little chance I can talk to anybody in that group.

Given their defensive posture and the fact they were enclosed in a fortress of patrol cars and surrounded by an array of police, Kate considered her options as Gabe left her to scout better positions.

Searching the area for any news competitors, Kate saw two TV news trucks at one end of the lot; a car from one of New York’s all-news radio stations was next to it, along with cars from the New York Daily News and the Queens Chronicle.

This isn’t going to be easy.

At the front of the bank, customers were trickling up to the sign posted at the door that informed them the branch was closed. After reading it and taking a few minutes to scope out the police presence, they left.

But one man didn’t.

He headed down the lot toward the group of distraught women. One staff member broke from the cluster, met him near some parked cars, hugged him and talked for a few moments before returning to her friends. As the man came back through the lot, Kate moved quickly toward him, using the cars to shield her so she wouldn’t be seen by the other reporters.

“Sir, excuse me, sir!”

The man went to her.

“I’m Kate Page with Newslead. I understand there was a robbery—do you know much about it?”

The man gave her question some thought. He appeared to be in his sixties. He had a sturdy frame, a handsome, craggy face and white hair with sideburns.

“My daughter called me not too long ago,” he said. “I just came down to see that she’s all right. She was one of the two tellers on duty when it happened.”

“Is she okay, sir?”

“Thank heaven, yes. She’s shook-up, though. It’s quite a jarring thing.”

“Could I get your name?”

“Ernest Beeson.”

“Could you spell that for me?”

The man did and Kate asked for his daughter’s name.

“Jolleen Ballinger, but she goes by Jo.”

Beeson spelled out her name.

“Did she tell you what happened?”

“I guess the manager came in and just walked out with a lot of cash.”

“Anything more?”

Beeson shrugged. “That’s about it.”

Kate glanced at the group in the distance.

“Mr. Beeson, do you think Jo would talk to me for a second?”

He stuck out his bottom lip. “I suppose you could go over there and ask her yourself.”

“I think we’d both prefer if she and I talked here, where it’s a bit private.” Kate touched his arm. “Would you consider asking her to join us here for a moment? You could tell her I’d be happy to share what I’ve learned about the Fultons.”

Beeson glanced toward his daughter.

“No harm in asking, I suppose. The girls are just waiting there for other investigators.”

Beeson went to the group, talked to his daughter and pointed to Kate. Immediately, Jo Ballinger’s attention, and that of some of the others, shot to Kate, who was standing seven or eight parked cars away. Several moments passed before Beeson accompanied his daughter to Kate, who introduced herself.

Jo Ballinger was uneasy.

“I don’t want my name in the papers. You can’t use my name.”

“I’ll just say a source close to the case.”

“Okay, but I really can’t tell you much,” Jo said. “I shouldn’t be talking to you, but Dad said you knew something about what’s happened?”

“I know a little, Jo, and I’ll help you if you help me, okay?”

“I will if I can. Did they find Dan?”

“Not yet. The SWAT team and bomb squad searched his house.”

Jo cupped her hands to her face.

“They found nothing. No sign of Dan, his wife or his son,” Kate said.

“Oh, my God!”

“Can you tell me what happened here earlier this morning? You were there when it happened, right?”

“Yes. This is my week to open with Annie, Annie Trippe, the head teller. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”

“Jo, I’m going to get most of the details anyway. You can help me make sure I get it right. I won’t use your name at all.”

Jo hesitated and bit her bottom lip. “Well, we went through our usual procedure for opening, then Dan came in and told Annie there was an inventory problem at South Branch. He drafted a directive for her to cosign about an emergency interbranch transfer that he was going to deliver himself.”

“So he planned to personally take the money himself to the other branch?”

“Yes.”

“Is that how transfers are usually done?”

“No, of course not! It’s a violation of procedure. Annie refused to sign it.” Jo glanced at the group. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this... I should get back.”

“Wait, Jo, just a few more seconds. Do you know how much money was going to be transferred?”

Jo hesitated before answering in a quiet voice, “A quarter million.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

“Yes. He just walked into the vault, put the cash in a bag and walked out.”

“So, what about the bomb he was supposedly wearing? Did he say anything about bombs?”

“He wrote a note on the directive, I guess so Annie would see it. Something about being held hostage, and that they all—him and his family—had bombs strapped to them. I really should get back.”

“Hang on, take these.” Kate reached into her pocket and gave Jo several business cards. “Pass them to your coworkers and ask them to call me. I’ll share any updates when I get them. Okay?”

Jo nodded and rejoined the group accompanied by her father, who’d decided to wait with her. Kate was glad to see Jo passing out her cards and the others glancing toward her. She was relieved that no other reporters had seen her interview Jo.

Kate used the hood of a car and reviewed her notes, confident that she now had the inside track on the story. She called the newsroom and asked for Reeka. It took a few seconds to transfer the call.

“Reeka Beck.”

“It’s Kate at the bank.”

“What do you have?”

“Dan Fulton, manager of the SkyNational Trust Banking in Roseoak Park, Queens, takes a quarter million dollars from his own branch after scrawling a note that ‘they’ have placed bombs on him and his family.”

“That’s solid? You’ve got it confirmed, Kate?”

“A person who was there when it happened detailed it for me. I don’t think anyone has what we have, Reeka. I think this is a national interest case. We don’t know where the manager is, or where his wife and nine-year-old son are. They’re all believed to be strapped with bombs, and no one seems to have a clue who’s behind it all.”

“Okay, get this on our news budget and give me a story within the hour. Did we get art with it?”

“Yes. Gabe Atwater’s got some dramatic stuff.”

“All right.”

“There’s still a few people I need to talk to.”

“I want a story in an hour, Kate. You can update through the day.”

“And the conference?”

“We’ll send a stringer.”

Kate ended her call.

As she turned to look for Gabe, she stepped directly into FBI agent Nick Varner.

“You’re something else, Kate, I’ll give you that.” He was tapping her business card in his hand and shaking his head. “You want to know everything, and you want to know it now.”

“I’m a reporter, Agent Varner. It’s what I do.”

“You’re doing a helluva job.”

“Well, that’s what I’m paid for. What’s your problem, anyway?”

“I’m telling you for the last time.” Varner jabbed a finger toward Kate. “Do not jeopardize this case.”

“And I’m telling you, I’m not going away.”

17

Roseoak Park, New York

Gabe Atwater’s Jeep Patriot accelerated down Orchard Boulevard. Destination: Dixon Donlevy Mutual Life Insurance, Lori Fulton’s employer.

Kate eyed the dashboard clock.

Like all reporters, she worked to a perpetual deadline ticking down on her. Most would be writing their story right now. They would’ve made a quick phone call to the company, plugged in its response and filed.

Not Kate.

She was old-school and still believed in digging for information face-to-face, abiding by the wisdom a rumpled old police reporter in San Francisco had once passed to her. Phone somebody, you get one story. Talk to them in person, you’ll get more than one story.

“Almost there,” Gabe said, glancing at his GPS.

Kate would make her deadline. She was a fast writer. She reviewed her notes, mentally shaping her story, still vexed by Tilden and Varner for jamming her at the Fultons’ house. Why were they in her face? Especially Varner, the good-looking FBI agent. Why was he being a hard-ass when she was only doing her job?

Maybe I’m getting close to something...

“Here we go.” Gabe stopped in front of a six-story rectangle of blue-tinted glass that reflected the small plaza across the street. “You’re on your own, Kate. I’ve got to get to another job in Brooklyn. Call the photo desk if anything breaks. We got plenty of freelancers in Queens.”

“That’s fine. I’ll write in the coffee shop in there—” Kate nodded to the plaza across the street “—then cab it back to the office. Thanks, Gabe.”

* * *

Dixon Donlevy was on the fifth floor of the glass building.

As the elevator rose, Kate weighed the pros and cons of making a cold visit. Sure, showing up without an appointment wasn’t ideal, but her competitors may have already called—even been here in person. She had to keep moving.

She stepped from the elevator, went down a polished hallway and passed through the brass-plated doors of Dixon Donlevy Mutual Life Insurance.

The lobby floor gleamed against the dark wood desk where the receptionist sat. A huge shield encircling a mountain range against a blue sky and the company’s name graced the wall behind her.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Kate Page. I’m a reporter with Newslead.” She placed her card on the counter. “I’d like to speak with Lori Fulton’s supervisor. It’ll only take a moment.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. Sorry, but I’m facing a tight deadline.”

The receptionist took Kate’s card and examined it.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, nodding to the waiting area.

The cushioned chairs were inviting, but Kate chose to stand by the gurgling water of a hanging wall fountain.

“Excuse me?” The receptionist called to Kate a few minutes later, her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “I’m told we’re not making any statements to the press at this time.”

“I understand, but it’s important I speak with someone while I’m here, to ensure my story is accurate concerning this company. Someone could talk to me now, or explain to their boss why they didn’t after the story is published.”

“One moment.”

Kate couldn’t hear what the receptionist said into the phone, so she turned back to the fountain until she ended her call.

“Someone will be out shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Kate moved from the fountain, admiring the landscape paintings, the palms in the floor planters, all the while shaping her story and checking the time. She was glancing at a glossy travel magazine featuring treks across Iceland on the cover when a tall woman in a well-cut navy skirt suit arrived.

“You’re Kate Page?”

“Yes.”

“Denise Marigold, with Corporate Communications.”

“Thank you for seeing me. In the wake of what’s happened, I just had a few questions about Lori Fulton, an employee of yours.”

“We’ve only just been informed about what’s happened by police and really can’t comment at this time.”

“I just need to confirm how long Lori Fulton’s been employed here.”

“Unfortunately, given the gravity of the situation, we really can’t discuss her employment here or her previous employment, the whole situation. We have to refer all questions to the authorities. Okay?”

“I understand. Can you offer any statement at all?”

Marigold’s face creased in thought. “We can say this—we’re deeply concerned for Lori and her family, and we’re cooperating fully with police in every way possible.”

Kate wrote down every word.

* * *

Denise Marigold didn’t give her much, but it was something, Kate thought as she hurried across the street to Fredrico’s Coffee Shop. She got a coffee and an apple muffin, found an empty table and began writing. Shutting out the noise of the busy shop, Kate entered her zone, concentrating as she wrote on her phone. Her story came together quickly as she firmed up the structure, inserting the quotes and details she’d managed to gather.

She proofread it twice, then sent it to Reeka Beck.

Kate checked the time. She’d made her deadline. She reached for her coffee and muffin to savor a small celebration. As she ate, something Denise Marigold had said niggled at her. She looked at her notebook, rereading the words she’d underlined, previous employment. Kate replayed Marigold’s comment on her recorder: “...can’t comment on her employment here or her previous employment...”

That’s an odd thing to say. Is Lori’s previous employment somehow a factor?

Kate gave it consideration before growing cognizant of the conversation people were having at a table behind her.

“...he robbed his own bank...they can’t find Lori...”

Kate withdrew her compact mirror from her bag and made as if to check her hair. Tilting it, she saw the two women and a man who were talking about the case. They had to be Lori Fulton’s coworkers, she thought, as one of the women continued.

“...my sister lives on the same street. I was talking to her this morning, she told me Lori didn’t show up for work...”

Kate put her mirror away and sat a little straighter, eavesdropping until they prepared to leave. Keeping her back to them, she cleared her table, put her garbage in the trash and left ahead of the group. She waited in the street, and when the group exited, she went toward them.

“Excuse me. But by any chance, do you happen to work in that building?” Kate indicated the glass office complex across the street.

“Yeah,” the man said.

“I’m looking for people who work at Dixon Donlevy Insurance.”

“Why?”

“Do you guys work there?”

“Maybe. Who are you?” the man asked.

“Kate Page. I’m a reporter with Newslead.” She took her Newslead ID from her bag and showed it to them. “I’m covering the robbery at the SkyNational bank. I’ve been to the bank, the Fulton home and I’ve spoken with Denise Marigold. I’m looking for people who know Lori Fulton. Do any of you work with her? Maybe you know her and her husband, Dan? He’s the manager of the bank that was robbed.”