What he found was a rough steel mounting, secured to the inside wall by three five-millimeter screws. What he didn’t find was the steel rod and flange he could push to trigger the latch and open the door.
A pulse of anger swept over him and gave a brief, but pleasant, rush of warmth. He wondered if Roland had used this cooler as a torture chamber before. It would explain the missing safety release, Tom thought. It made sense they pulled this stunt after hours so that no Plenty Market employees would discover him slowly freezing to death inside their refrigerator. A bunch of yelling and banging would only cost him precious degrees of body heat. Any moves he made to escape would have to be well thought through.
Tom closed his eyes, despite the darkness within, and allowed his body to shiver. Shivering, he knew, would cause the body to produce heat. He was aware it could also produce fatigue, which in turn would lower his body temperature. Still, the air movement from shivering warmed him some and allowed him precious time to think clearly.
Again moving toward the shut door, Tom felt around the sabotaged inside release handle. The hole where the steel rod should have been was smaller than the tip of his pinkie finger.
Tom smiled.
He worked his way over to the shelving unit closest to him and felt three levels of wire shelving fastened to a freestanding structure. Tom removed all food items, making sure he kept the path to the door clear. He removed the top two levels of shelving, leaving the bottom shelf in place. He gripped the sides of the shelf unit and tested its sturdiness.
Good.
Settling into position, he set his foot down atop the bottom shelf. He had enough maneuverability with the other shelves removed to generate significant force with a downward thrust of his leg. They had measured how much force his kick generated in the navy, and it exceeded a thousand pounds of pressure, more than the equal of a good martial artist.
Tom hoisted his foot knee high and brought it down with as much power as he could generate. His body shook from the impact, but he felt the steel rods of the shelf begin to loosen. Again and again he slammed his foot into the shelf, until at last he heard a pleasing snap. Tom removed the broken shelf from the structure holding it in place and felt around the edges for where a rod had separated from the frame. Then he bent that rod back even farther with his hands. He had no doubt the rod he bent would fit inside the hole, but would it be long enough to engage the latch?
His shivering hands made it difficult to manipulate the unwieldy shelf with its broken wire rod into the tiny hole at the center of the release handle mount. Before long, though, he had the rod inserted and the trigger mechanism engaged.
Tom emerged from the darkness of the cooler, wearing his Windbreaker on his head. He blinked his eyes to adjust them to the light.
“Thirteen minutes,” Roland said. “Not bad, Tom. Not bad at all.”
Tom turned.
Roland Boyd kept his distance from Tom and held a stopwatch in his hand. Even from twenty paces, Tom could see the welt on Roland’s face—it was red but had subsided some already. Cold air from the open cooler door continued to chill Tom’s skin. Sullivan was there, too, diagonal to Tom.
Smart move.
With the three of them forming a ragged triangle, Tom could go after either Sullivan or Roland, but definitely not both. Sullivan now had a suit jacket on, and Roland still wore his. Tom had to believe both men were armed, though neither brandished any weapon.
Tom shivered as he spoke. “What the hell game are you playing, Roland?”
“Sorry, Tom,” Roland replied. “But you’re not as easy to frighten as Bob.”
“You could have just asked me to stay away from your wife.”
“Not good enough. I needed to be sure.”
Sullivan shifted his weight, right to left. Tom kept his eyes fixed on Roland, but he was ready to evade Sullivan if the need should arise.
“Hope you’re satisfied,” Tom said.
Tom battled back the urge to take down Roland. Sullivan aside, having his bail revoked proved to be a powerful deterrent.
“Look, Tom,” Roland said. “This whole thing is really unfortunate. I considered you a friend. And I still do.”
“Can’t say the feeling is mutual,” Tom replied.
“What choice did I have? You’re a friggin’ Navy SEAL. Guys like you don’t frighten that easy.”
“Well, I’m not scared now.”
“But at least you know how far I’m willing to go,” Roland said. “You know if I want to put you back in jail, I can do just that. I hope we’re clear about this.”
“Crystal.”
“Keep away from my wife, Tom.”
“Like I said, you could have just asked.”
Roland’s smile looked more like a grimace. “Maybe when the dust settles, you and I can go out for drinks, have a little laugh about this. Okay?”
“That’s not going to happen,” Tom said.
“Never say never,” Roland replied. “Look, I regret it had to come to this, Tom. But a man’s got to protect his castle.”
Roland opened the stockroom’s rear door, then retreated to his prior position. Sullivan didn’t move. Tom walked between the two men with his gaze fixed forward, but stopped just short of the open door. Tom looked first at Sullivan, then at Roland.
He walked outside and stood between the yellow painted lines of the loading zone. He took a few steps forward, then stopped. He kept his back to the open door, arms hanging loosely by his sides. He waited there, with his eyes fixed on a shapeless patch of unlit woods before him. He kept perfectly still. Didn’t flinch. Not even when Roland’s shadow appeared within the narrow shaft of light cast outward from the open door behind him, not even when Roland closed that door with a slam.
Tom had delivered a message of his own: he was not afraid.
Chapter 37
“You’ve got to tell us where she is.”
Irena Kalinowski sat at her kitchen table, looking sheepish and defeated. Vern Kalinowski sat across from his daughter, glaring. Tom tried to keep his composure but found it challenging under these circumstances. Jill, who should have been upstairs in the Kalinowskis’ guest bedroom, was gone.
Earlier, Tom had called Vern from the Plenty Market parking lot. Vern’s home phone rang several times before his former assistant coach finally answered it. Tom had told Vern he needed to speak with Jill, and that it was urgent. While Vern went to get her, Tom sat in his car and watched Roland and Sullivan drive away.
He commended his own restraint.
The purpose of Tom’s phone call to Jill was simple—he needed to tell her that Mitchell Boyd, effective immediately, was officially off-limits.
Tom’s stomach sank when Vern picked up the phone again. “She’s not there,” he said. “She must have snuck out the window, or something.”
Tom sent Jill a text message.
She replied: Green.
The tightness in Tom’s chest released some. Where are you? he texted her.
In bed, she sent back.
You’re lying.
No response.
He texted her again: Where are you?
Still no response.
Now it was up to Irena, Vern’s oldest by twelve minutes, to tell Tom what he needed to know.
“Honey, this is a very serious situation,” Vern said to Irena. “You’ll be in big, big trouble if you lie to me. Where did Jill go?”
Irena let out a loud sigh. Her gaze sank to the table. Tom could see her trembling. “She went to this place called the Spot,” Irena said in a quiet voice.
Tom and Vern looked at each other.