24 Hours

Fifteen miles south of the Jennings house, Dr. James McDill and his wife sat on a leather couch in the office of the Special Agent-in-Charge of the Jackson field office of the FBI. His name was Frank Zwick, and McDill figured him for ex-Army, probably Intelligence or CID. A short, fit man in his late forties, Zwick spoke with the clipped cadence McDill remembered from certain officers in Vietnam. The SAC had been on and off the phone for the past half hour, talking to bank presidents, helicopter pilots, other SACs, and miscellaneous officials, constantly smoothing his too-black hair as he talked.

McDill’s identification of Cheryl Lynn Tilly at the Jackson police station had precipitated a storm of FBI activity. After Agent Chalmers phoned Zwick, the SAC had summoned the McDills back to the Federal Building along with eight field agents. Now they all stood or sat around his spacious office, listening to Zwick arrange the logistics of his campaign over the phone. McDill could only hear one side of the conversations, but he didn’t like the way the plan was shaping up. Suddenly, the phone clattered into its cradle and Zwick began addressing them.

“Here’s where we stand. One: the ransom. Every bank within thirty miles of Biloxi is set to report incoming wire transfers greater than twenty-five thousand dollars to this office. Two: tactical capability. We don’t have time to bring in a hostage rescue team from Quantico, so we’ll use our own special weapons team. Some of you are on it, and I know you’re more than capable of handling this operation. We’re also coordinating a weapons team out of the New Orleans field office, for anything required on the Gulf Coast. We’ve got more than enough surveillance gear on site here, and we’ll have twenty agents in this office by seven a.m., ready for action. We’ll have twenty more out of New Orleans for surveillance duty in Biloxi. Three: air support. We’ll have choppers both here and in Biloxi, ready for aerial surveillance and/or pursuit and assault.” Zwick made a steeple of his fingers and looked each of his agents in the eye. “Questions?”

No one had any. Or no one wanted to voice what might be viewed as dissent by his SAC. McDill had several questions, but just as he was about to voice one, Agent Chalmers said, “Sir? I wonder if we’re not jumping the gun a little on this.”

“How do you mean?” Zwick asked, looking none too pleased by the question.

“Dr. McDill identified Cheryl Lynn Tilly from the JPD mug books. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that the crime she took part in last year is actually being repeated this year. Does it?”

Zwick gave them a self-satisfied smile. He clearly knew something they didn’t, and he could scarcely contain his excitement. “Gentlemen, ten minutes ago, our resident agent in Gulfport showed a faxed photo of Cheryl Lynn Tilly to a bellboy in the Beau Rivage Hotel. That bellboy is positive he saw Tilly in the hotel yesterday afternoon.”

Every mouth in the room fell open.

“To quote Sir Arthur Conan Doyle-through the immortal voice of Sherlock Holmes-the game is afoot.”

In that moment McDill had a premonition of disaster. It wasn’t the quote itself. It was more the way Zwick had voiced it. And the context. At the core of all this frantic activity was a kidnapped child. A child who could die at any moment. And that took the situation about as far from a game as you could get.

“Our R.A. and that bellboy are reviewing the casino’s security tapes as we speak,” Zwick went on. “If they spot her, they’ll do a video capture and e-mail it up here for Dr. McDill to look at. Until then, we have to assume that McDill is right. There is a kidnapping-for-ransom taking place. The same crime has been executed five times previously by the same group, and probably within this jurisdiction.” Zwick laid his hands flat on the table. “Gentlemen, by tomorrow noon, those sons of bitches are going to be behind bars.”

McDill held up his hand.

“Yes, Doctor?”

He tried to choose his words carefully. “Sir, after hearing all these preparations, I’m starting to wonder if the central fact of all this is being given the priority it should.”

“What do you mean?”

“The kidnapped child. The hostage, as you call him. Or her. Somewhere not too far from here-if things are going as they did last year-a child is being held prisoner by a semiretarded man. That man is under instructions to kill the child if he doesn’t get a check-in call from the leader of his group every half hour. Given that, it’s difficult to see what you can accomplish with all this technology. Anything that alerts the leader to your presence could instantly result in the death of the child.”

Zwick gave McDill a patronizing smile. “Are you suggesting we do nothing at all, Doctor?”