Out of his seat and through the door behind him, Boyle grabbed the heavy package and headed inside.

The white surveillance van, complete with a periscope and microwave transmitters and receivers, was designed to look like a telephone repair vehicle. The driver was also dressed to look the part.

Darby sat next to Coop on a carpet-covered bench near the back doors. Across from her, seated on the opposite bench, were two members from Boston SWAT. Both men were sweating beneath their heavy combat gear. One was busy chewing gum and blowing bubbles, the other checking the impressive-looking Heckler & Koch MP7 machine gun strapped across his chest.

She had no idea where they were. There weren’t any windows. The tight space smelled of men’s deodorant and coffee.

Banville was seated on a bolted-down swivel chair set up in front of a small but workable desk. He was having a private conversation with one of the FBI technicians. She wondered what was going on.

Another fed, a pair of headphones wrapped around his massive bald head, was listening to Evan’s conversation in the house, sometimes pausing to talk to his partner, who was busy studying the screen of a laptop. It was hooked up to some futuristic-looking equipment being used to monitor the listening device’s frequency. At the moment, the devices were turned off.

The call would come through. The FBI techs would lock on to the signal and Boston SWAT would get the call to move in. Boston SWAT was very good. They would move in hard and fast.

The wall phone started ringing. Darby tensed, digging her fingers into the edge of her seat.

Banville answered it. He listened for a full minute before he hung up. He shook his head.

‘Bugs are still off,’ he said.

Darby rubbed her damp palms across her pants. Come on, goddamnit. Turn on.

The marble lobby of the Boston police station was very impressive. Boyle was sure hidden security cameras were watching him right now, recording his every move. Cops were everywhere. He kept his head bowed as he moved quickly toward the front desk.

The blue uniform sitting high behind the front desk was reading today’s Herald by a banker’s lamp. Boyle slid the big package across the wood.

‘Want me to take this up?’ Boyle asked. ‘It’s pretty heavy.’

‘No, we’ll take it from here. You need me to sign anything?’

‘You’re all set,’ Boyle said. ‘Have a great day.’

*

Billy Lankin was still thinking about the FedEx truck. He didn’t know much about cars, but he felt reasonably sure the problem with the delivery truck wasn’t blown shocks.

Billy’s partner, Dan Simmons, sipped his coffee as rain drummed softly against the roof above them.

That’s the eighth time you’ve looked in the garage, Billy.’

‘It’s that FedEx truck. I don’t like the looks of it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The way the back of the truck is sagging,’ Billy said. ‘I don’t think the shocks are blown.’

‘If it’s bothering you that much, go take a look.’

‘I think I will.’

Chapter 41

Boyle opened the door to the parking garage. The cop stationed out front, the one who had looked over the back of the truck, was checking the driver’s side door.

Smile and play it cool.

‘ Something wrong, officer?’

‘Since when do you guys lock up your truck? You don’t trust us?’ The cop grinned, but there was a warning behind it.

‘Force of habit,’ Boyle said, returning the smile. ‘My normal route is in Dorchester. When I started out there, I was delivering a package and some kids vandalized my truck. Guess who was liable for all the damages?’

‘You mind if I take a look in the back?’

‘Sure.’ Boyle reached inside his jacket for the keys. He felt the Colt Commander tucked inside the shoulder holster.

Boyle unlocked the back door. The cop ran his tongue across his front teeth as he looked around at the boxes lined on the shelves. Boyle wondered if the cop was going to get inside the truck and start moving the boxes around. The fertilizer bombs were packaged in big boxes underneath the shelves. Boyle had left nothing to chance.

The cop moved his head out. ‘You better get those shocks looked at.’

‘I’m going to drop off the truck right now,’ Boyle said. ‘Have a good one.’

Ten minutes later, Boyle was back on the road, heading toward Storrow Drive. He put on his headphones and tuned his iPod to the frequency of the small listening device he had planted inside the taped folds of the brown paper wrapped around the package.

A scrambling of noises, people talking, voices far and close.

A voice came over the headphones: ‘Christ, this thing’s heavy.’

Next, a loud thud, and then the same voice said, ‘Hey, Stan, do me a favor and pull the rest of the mail off the conveyor belt, will ya?’

‘I thought you wanted me to go get us something to eat?’

‘In a minute. This package just came in for the lab. I want to get it upstairs.’

Boyle took out his BlackBerry and typed the message quickly with his thumbs: ‘Package delivered. About to go on X-ray machine. Test for explosives?’

Boyle hit send and waited. He wished he could talk to Richard. It would be certainly quicker and much easier than trying to type while driving.

Richard’s message came through: ‘They’ll see mannequin on X-ray and will rush to the lab.’

Boyle hoped Richard was right. He typed back: ‘Twenty minutes from hospital. Darby?’

Five minutes later, Richard’s response came through. ‘She’s in van, with SWAT. Will turn on listening devices in 30 minutes. Signal when ready.’

Boyle hit the gas.

Stan Petarsky, one of three X-ray technicians hired by the Boston police, sat on a stool behind the controls, sipping coffee to clear his head. Last night, he had another humdinger of a fight with his wife about his drinking, and right now he didn’t know what was worse – the pounding hangover or the sound of his wife’s nagging voice ringing through his head.

A little nip from a bottle of Jim Beam would shut them both up. He’d have to wait until lunch, though, when the bar across the street opened.

The package was moving down the conveyor belt. When it reached the X-ray machine, he edged the controls until the package was in full view on the monitor, which was eye level with his face.

Stan stood up fast, knocking his stool over. ‘Jimmy, get over here.’

‘What?’

‘Take a look at this.’ Stan stepped back so Jimmy could get a full view of the X-ray monitor.

Inside the brown-wrapped box were severed limbs and a head. Stan could make out the legs and arms. Next to the head was a hand wearing several rings and a watch.

Stan’s stomach squeezed so hard he thought he was going to dry-heave.

Jimmy rubbed a shaking hand across his dry lips. ‘Back the package out of the X-ray for a minute. I want to see something.’

Stan did. Jimmy put on his bifocals and examined the writing.

‘Check out the name in the return address,’ Jimmy said. His face was pale.

‘Carol Cranmore,’ Stan said. ‘So what?’

‘So that’s the name of the missing girl. Haven’t you been following the news?’

‘Christ Almighty. You think her body is in there?’

‘You better call upstairs and tell them.’

‘You do it. I have to do the test for explosives first.’

‘You think there’s a bomb stuffed up her ass?’

‘Hey, I’m just following procedure.’

‘I need to make some calls. While I’m on the phone, you might want to do yourself a favor, chew on some mints or gum or something. I’m getting a buzz off your breath, hear what I’m saying?’

Darby shifted in her seat. On the laptop screen were two pairs of steady lines which reminded her of an EKG.

She was itching for something to happen, needed to get busy. She kept crossing her legs.

Coop leaned in close to her. ‘Is there something wrong with your ass?’