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The top one, of John’s wife walking with their son in front of Saint Mary’s in Philadelphia, initially made him wonder if this had something to do with his work at the cathedral. Then the next photograph was of his wife entering their Victorian house in Northeast Philly. And he quickly flipped to the next, a shot of his son leaving school.
“What the hell is this?” Garvey snapped.
Captain Jack met his eyes.
“They know all about your family. And their schedule. And your schedule.”
John Garvey felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
“I don’t understand . . . and who the hell is ‘they’?”
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t want to work for them, either. But one thing led to another here and—”
John Garvey, starting to stand, interrupted, “I don’t know where you got these, but—”
“Sit down, John. There’s no way of getting out of this. I’ve learned that the hard way.”
“Get out of what?” Garvey said, staring at Todd.
“Sit.”
As Garvey slipped back in his chair, he said, “This can’t have anything to do with the church?”
Captain Jack laughed as he looked past Garvey, out to the sea. He took a chug of his beer, then looked back at Garvey.
“Depends on what you worship, my friend. Look. It is very simple. They have a task for you to do. You’re a regular business traveler. There’s no customs to clear in Philly. You’ll zip right through, man. Piece of cake.”
“What task?”
“You do this, and nothing will happen to your family.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Garvey blurted. “Why are you threatening me?”
Todd’s face turned very serious. “Look. You better learn to control your emotions. Not doing so could cause you to screw up, and that would be a very unfortunate thing for you, for your family.”
Todd flipped back to the bottom photograph.
Garvey saw that it was of a dark-haired boy about the age of his own blonde-headed son. He was floating facedown along a dirty, rocky riverbank.
“It’s terrible when kids have accidents, no? And women, who we know can be careless, clumsy, and unfortunate things happen to them . . .”
Garvey, despite the temperature in the high eighties, suddenly felt cold and clammy.
“What is this . . . this task?”
—
John Garvey looked at his suitcase now sitting on the Toledo scale beside the desk agent’s computer terminal. The digital readout showed it weighed forty pounds, then forty-one, then settled on forty-two-five. Fifty pounds, Garvey knew, was the limit that the airline said a bag could weigh. Anything above that and he would have to pay a fee for the excess. He didn’t care about the money. He just did not want any extra attention paid to his suitcase—and its hidden contents.
Thank God. I got lucky.
I knew my room scale couldn’t be properly calibrated.
He had spent a half hour in his hotel room working with the bathroom scale. He first stood on it, and the round gauge registered his weight as two hundred. He knew he actually weighed one-seventy-five, so he would have to keep the discrepancy in mind. He picked up his suitcase. When he stepped back on the scale, this time holding his suitcase, the scale’s circle gauge spun, then slowed and finally stopped on two-eighty. He then stepped off, opened the case, and took out enough slacks and shoes that he hoped would weigh ten pounds. And repeated that process three times before the scale registered two-sixty.
He had had to leave behind the extra clothes, in the closet, then called the manager from the airport, saying he’d forgotten them and would get them on his next trip.
Now he looked at the suitcase and could visualize behind the black fabric the two thick bricks that were wrapped in plastic and gray duct tape. Together they weighed right at four and a half pounds.
