Along Came a Spider - James Patterson [18]
Soneji was confident, realistic, and, most of all, pragmatic about his own masterpiece. A “fluke” was always possible. A “lucky accident” by the police could occur. The actual exchange of money would be tricky. It meant contact, and contact was always highly dangerous in life.
To his knowledge, and his knowledge was encyclopedic, no modern kidnapper had satisfactorily solved the ransom-exchange problem. Not if they wanted to be paid for their labors, and he needed a huge payday for his multimillion-dollar kids.
Wait until they hear how much money.
The thought brought a smile to his lips. Of course, the world-beater Dunnes and the all-powerful Goldbergs could, and would, pay. It was no accident he had chosen those two families—with their pampered little snot-nosed brats, and their unlimited supply of wealth and power.
Soneji lit one of the white candles he kept in a side pocket of his jacket. He sniffed a pleasant whiff of beeswax. Then he made his way to the small bathroom off the kitchen.
He was remembering an old Chambers Brothers song, “Time.” It was time… time… time to pull the rug out from under everybody’s feet. Time… time… time for his first little surprise, the first of many. Time… time… time to start to build his own legend. This was his movie.
The room, the whole house, was freezing cold in late December. Gary Soneji could see his breath wisping out as he set up shop in the bathroom.
Fortunately, the abandoned house had well water, which was still running in the bathroom. Very cold water indeed. Gary Soneji lit some candles, and began to work. It would take him a full half-hour before he was through.
First, he removed the dark brown, balding half-wig. He’d purchased it three years before, at a theatrical costume store in New York City. That same night, he’d gone to see Phantom of the Opera. He’d loved the Broadway musical. He identified with the Phantom so much that it frightened him. It sent him off to read the original novel, first in French, then in English.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” he spoke to the face in the mirror.
With the glue and other schmutz off, a full head of blond hair was revealed. Long and wavy blond curls.
“Mr. Soneji? Mr. Chips? Is that you, fella?”
Not a bad-looking sort, actually. Good prospects? On a roll, maybe? Clearly on a roll, yes.
And nothing at all like Chips. Nothing like our Mr. Soneji!
Away came the thick mustache that Gary Soneji had worn since the day he’d arrived to interview at the Washington Day School. Then the contact lenses were removed. His eyes changed from green back to chestnut brown.
Gary Soneji held the dwindling candle up to the dingy, cracked bathroom mirror. He rubbed one corner of the glass clean with the sleeve of his jacket.
“There. Just look at you. Look at you now. Genius is in the details, right?”
That insipid nerd from the private school was almost completely eradicated. The wimp and the do-gooder. Mr. Chips was dead and gone forever.
What a wondrous farce it had been. What a daring plan of action, and how well executed. A shame no one would ever know what had really happened. But whom could he tell?
Gary Soneji left the farmhouse around 11:30 P.M., right on his schedule. He walked to a detached garage that was north of the house.
In a special place in the garage, very special, he hid five thousand dollars from his savings, his secret cache, money he’d stolen over the years. That was part of the plan, too. Long-range thinking.
Then he headed down to the barn, and his car. Once he was inside the barn, he checked on the kids again. So far, so great.
* * *
No complaints from the kiddies.
The