Kathy recognizes him, as well. She slips back to me, close enough to grip my arm and whisper in my ear. “That’s Kidder. Joey can’t be far away.”

She seems exhilarated by the thought, almost giddy with purpose. I’m about to suggest that maybe we should make a plan, coordinate our efforts, but my eager companion has already moved on.

I slip behind a waist-high chest of mechanic tools and peek around the corner. This Kidder dude has his back to us. He seems to be talking to himself, shaking his head, as if in an argument with himself. Then I spot the slim microphone wand extending from beneath the wool cap and realize he’s equipped with a Bluetooth headset. He’s talking to someone, taking orders or arguing, or both. Whatever, he seems frustrated, not in complete control, and that gives me a little more confidence. Maybe we can pull this off, after all. Assuming the boy is nearby—though I’ve seen no sign of him yet.

As Kidder turns in my direction I pull back behind the tool chest. Trusting the dimness to hide me. Not that Kidder has given any sign of awareness that he’s under observation. He seems to be concentrating on his headset.

“What?” he says, his voice echoing in the vast interior. “Repeat? Well, why didn’t you say so?”

His posture tense and angry, he reaches up to thump on the tail section of the jet. A moment later a hatch opens and a stairway begins to unfold. I expect someone to descend—a pilot or possibly a flight attendant—but no one emerges. Apparently there’s no one in the passenger compartment, or if there is they’re not revealing themselves to Kidder, who stands below the stairway, shaking his head in frustration.

“Idiots,” he mutters. “Do I have to do everything myself?” Then, louder, into the headset, “Are you ready for the package or not? Okay, fine. Whatever you want. It’s just us chickens out here, so have a little patience.”

The man with the wool cap and the deeply aggrieved attitude climbs back on the tractor and retreats into the gloom. The only sound in the vast hangar is the electric whine of the tractor motor, and the small hard wheels spinning along the concrete floor.

Part of me wants to leave the protection of the tool chest and run after him, waving the gun and demanding Joey, but my best instincts tell me that would be futile. That would be giving up my best weapon: the element of surprise. Have patience, wait until you know where the boy is and that you can make him safe. So I remain in place, watching as the little tractor closes in on a white panel van parked deep in the shadows at the rear of the hangar.

Kathy, appearing out of nowhere with a suddenness that nearly stops my heart, hisses, “That’s it. The same van that came to fetch Joey, there’s no doubt.”

“We should wait,” I say. “Let him bring the boy to us. Then we get the jump.”

Adding, in my own mind, and let’s hope Shane is here by then, he’ll know what to do.

“Bring him to us,” Kathy repeats, as if mulling it over. “Okay, that makes sense.”

Kidder gets off the tractor, opens the rear door of the van, blocking our view. When he gets back on the tractor he has something with him. As he emerges from behind the van he’s towing a little low-bed trailer, the kind they use to transport luggage. On the trailer is a crate, of the size that might be suitable for a medium-size dog.

The whine of the tractor begins to sound like a high-pitched scream, but still we wait. I’m keenly aware that we have to choose our moment, that our timing has to be perfect and that Kidder is quite possibly armed.

Kathy Mancero, with that oddly cool breath, whispers, “I’ve got this,” and slips away on all fours, crawling around the back of the tool chest.

I’ve got this? What does that mean?

Before I have time to explore the thought, it happens. As Kidder swings the tractor around the wing of the aircraft, Kathy explodes from behind the tool chest, launching herself into the air, a missile aimed at a monster. As she collides with the muscled hardness of his body, her arms tighten around his neck, pulling him off the seat with the forward momentum of her hundred pounds of bone and grief.

They land on the concrete, a tangle of limbs, Kidder spitting curses.

“Stop right there! I’ve got a gun!”

That’s me, holding the .38 in both hands and trying to look like I know what I’m doing.

Kidder takes one look at me, grins like a lunatic and flips over so that Kathy’s skinny body is between him and the gun.

“Take your shot, sweetheart!” he chortles.

Giggling. Like he thinks this is fun. But the crazed giggle abruptly stops as Kathy rips off his wool cap and grabs a fistful of clotted hair. The back of his head is one big scab. She slams his head down with all her might and his nose smacks into the concrete.

Kidder yelps, an animal howl of rage. He outweighs her by about a hundred pounds and in an instant she’s bucked away by his vastly superior strength. She flies through the air for several yards and lands flat on her back with her left arm behind her, stunned or worse.

Measuring my distance carefully—deathly afraid he’ll find a way to take the gun away from me—I shuffle closer, bellowing, “Hands in the air! I’ll do it, I’ll pull the trigger!”

Kidder, up on his knees, gives me a sly grin, like he’d been hoping it would come to this. “I know you,” he says. “My friend in the bedroom. Bet I made you wet your little pants.”

“Put your hands behind your head and lace your fingers together!” I demand, borrowing a familiar, if amalgamated, line from just about every cop show ever seen on TV.

“Anything you say,” he says, feigning agreement. His hands remain in front of him and his smile is taunting, daring me to fire.

“Uh,” says Kathy. “Uh.”

The poor woman has had the breath knocked out of her, at the very least. Her eyes are unfocused and her left arm looks wrong, as if maybe the landing jarred it out of its socket at the shoulder. Despite what has to be excruciating pain she smiles oddly and with her good arm she points upward. Something flits through the air high above us, something that emits a soft, sad cooing.

Mourning doves in the great steel rafters, under the curving roof of the hangar. When I glance back again Kidder has halved the distance between us. Still on his knees but much, much closer.

“Stop!” I scream, tightening my crouch, re-aiming the .38. “Not another inch!”

He grins and actually backs up a foot or so. “Have you ever fired that thing?” he asks conversationally. “It takes like a two-pound pull on the trigger. Harder than you might think. And the barrel is going to jump, that’s guaranteed. I’ve seen people miss from three feet away and we’re like, what, six whole feet?”

“Shut up.”

Kathy has managed to get to her feet, her bad arm dangling. Her eyes have started to clear and it looks to me like she’s going to be okay, assuming we can get her to a hospital in the very near future.

Her mouth starts to open, but before she can get a word out a deep male voice booms through the hangar.

“Kathy! Alice! I’ve got him! You did it!”

Keeping one eye on Kidder, I turn my stance slightly and find Shane, the big man himself. Panting from his efforts but with an immense grin on his face. He’s ripped open the dog crate and has a small boy in his arms, unconscious but clearly alive.

Joey.

Kathy cries out with joy, her whole face glistening with tears. She limps toward Shane and the boy, wounded but unvanquished. It’s a beautiful sight, and I’m close to tears myself. But I can’t quit now. The gun, even grasped in both hands, is starting to get heavy.

Kidder, humming to himself, shuffles closer, marching on his knees with his arms swinging, tick tock, like a child playing at soldier.

“No,” I say, finger squeezing. “No!”

Grinning, Kidder says, “You know what’s funny?”