Page 152 of Bonded in Death

“I’m—I’m Devin. Devin McReedy.”

“How old are you, Devin?”

“Nine. I’m nine.”

Eyes on the screen, Eve used the keyboard to run Devin McReedy, age nine, New York. And saw the Amber Alert.

“What’s going to happen to you, Devin?”

“You—you—” Tears tracked down his face. “You’re going to kill me with the gas, so I can’t breathe and I die. I don’t want to! Please. I didn’t do anything bad! I was just—”

“Devin? Remember what we discussed. Say what I tell you, no more. Or I’ll have to hurt you. Again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

“Now, what has to happen so I don’t kill you with the gas? So you don’t die?”

“Somebody has to take my place. Um, um. Owl or Mole or Fox or… I can’t remember all the names. I can’t!”

“Or Chameleon or Cobra or Magpie or Panther. Or Eve Dallas. And what will happen when one of them takes your place?”

“I can go home. You promised, I can go home and you won’t hurt my mom or my dad or my brother.”

“How old are you again, Devin?”

“Nine. I’m nine.”

“Just nine years old. So young! So innocent! So defenseless! What do you say, heroes? Is your miserable life worth more than this boy’s? Decide, choose which of you will trade lives. I will contact Eve Dallas again at precisely noon tomorrow. If you attempt to stall, or negotiate, he loses a finger, and the price goes up to two lives for his.”

On-screen, the boy curled up, sobbing.

“At that time you will receive specific instructions. Follow them, precisely, or he loses a hand, and the price goes up to three lives. Fail, and he dies, and I take another. Payment is due.”

The transmission ended.

“On the turnpike, heading south,” Roarke told her.

“No, he’s not. He’s not. That’s a ploy, misdirection. How fast is he traveling, what’s the last mile marker?”

“He’s been at a steady sixty, and sticking to the right-hand lane.”

“A truck, a bus. He’s not on it.”

But she contacted Whitney.

“Commander, urgent situation. I need roadblocks, southbound turnpike.”

She whipped through the details.

“Five minutes,” Whitney said, and clicked off.

“He’ll do it.” Marjorie rubbed a hand on her heart. “He’ll do exactly what he said to that child.”

“Quiet.”

She tagged Peabody.

“Don’t talk, listen. He’s got a kid. Devin McReedy, age nine. Amber Alert’s been out since just after four.” She reeled off an address. “Get there, find out who’s handling it, talk to the family. Details. Get them all. Then get here, you and McNab. Have him contact Feeney. And you contact the rest of the bullpen.

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