The Big Bad Wolf - James Patterson [73]
Mr. Potter: Is this a test? I don’t need this shit.
Wolf: You know it is.
I typed: The septic tank. I told you that.
No response came from the Wolf. He was rubbing my nerves raw.
So when do I get my new boy? I typed.
A pause of several seconds.
Wolf: You have the money?
Mr. Potter: Of course I do.
Wolf: How much do you have?
I thought I knew the correct answer to that, but I couldn’t be sure. Two weeks earlier, Taylor had taken one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars from his account with a money manager at Lehman in New York.
Mr. Potter: One hundred twenty-five thousand. The money isn’t a problem. It’s burning a hole in my pocket.
No response from Wolf.
I typed: U told me not to be redundant.
Wolf: All right then, maybe we’ll get you the boy. Be careful! There might not be another!
I typed: Then there won’t be another hundred twenty-five thousand!!!
Wolf: I’m not worried. There are lots of freaks like you. You’d be amazed.
Mr. Potter: So. How is your hostage?
Wolf: I have to go back to work. . . . One more question, Potter. Just to be safe. Where did you get your name?
I looked around the room. Oh, Christ. It was something I hadn’t thought to ask Taylor.
A voice whispered close to my ear. Monnie’s. “The kids’ books? They call Harry Mr. Potter at the Hogwarts school. Maybe? I don’t know.”
Was that it? I needed to type something; it had to be the right answer. Was the name from the Harry Potter books? Because he liked boys? Then something from Taylor’s office in the farmhouse flashed in my brain.
My fingers went to the keys. Paused for a second. Then I typed my answer: This is absurd. The name is from the Jamaica Kincaid novel—Mr. Potter. Fuck U!
I waited for a response. So did everyone else in the room. Finally it came.
Wolf: I’ll get you the boy, Mr. Potter.
Chapter 85
WE WERE IN BUSINESS again, and I was back working the streets, the way I liked it, the way it used to be.
I had been in Boston several times before, loved the city enough to consider moving there, and was comfortable. For the next two days we shadowed a student named Paul Xavier, from his apartment on Beacon Hill, to his classes at Harvard, to the Ritz-Carlton, where he was a waiter, to popular clubs like No Borders and Rebuke.
Xavier was the “bait” we had set out for the Wolf and his kidnapping crew.
Actually, Xavier was being impersonated by a thirty-year-old agent from our field office in Springfield, Massachusetts. The agent’s name was Paul Gautier. Boyishly handsome, tall and slender, with fluffy light brown hair, he looked like someone in his early twenties. He was armed, but also being closely watched by a minimum of six agents at all times of the day and night. We had no idea how or when the Wolf’s team might try to grab him, only that they would.
For twelve hours each day, I was one of the agents watching and protecting Gautier. I had spoken about the dangers of using “bait” to try and catch the kidnappers, but nobody had paid attention.
On the second night of surveillance, and according to plan, Paul Gautier went to “the Fens,” along the Muddy River near Park Drive and Boylston Street. Actually called the Back Bay Fens, it had been imagined by Frederick Law Olmsted, who’d also designed the Boston Common and Central Park in New York. In the evening hours after the clubs closed, the real Paul Xavier often cruised the Fens looking for sexual encounters, which was why we had sent our agent there.
It was dangerous work for all of us, but especially for Agent Gautier. The area was dark, and there were no streetlights. The tall reeds along the river were thick and provided cover for pickups and liaisons—and kidnappings.
Agent Peggy Katz and I were on the edge of the reeds, which resembled elephant grass. During the past half hour, she had admitted that she wasn’t really interested in sports but had learned about basketball and football because she wanted to be able to talk with her male counterparts about something.
“Men talk about other things,” I said as I scouted the Fens through night glasses.
“I know