Beyond belief (19 page)

A buzzing sound. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. White, blinding light.

He squinted at his surroundings. It was a large
room, maybe fifty by fifty feet, which was bigger than his entire house. Every inch of the floor and walls was covered with thick cream-colored padding. There was no furniture, no windows, and, as far as he could tell, no doors. Just row after row of fabric-covered panels.

He stood and pushed on the wall panel closest to him. It was soft, just like the floor.

It should've been a dream, but he knew it wasn't.

“Hello?” he shouted. “Can anybody hear me?”

There was a loud, sharp clanging sound.

One of the panels swung outward.

A thin, blond-haired woman stepped into the room, and the panel closed behind her. She was dressed in a strange outfit that resembled a surgical scrub suit. It looked like it was made from paper.

She gave Jesse an awkward smile and held out a large plastic tumbler. “You must be thirsty.”

He nodded and took the tumbler. He drew it to his lips, then froze. He glared at the woman.

“Go ahead,” she said. “It's only water.”

He gulped it down and let the tumbler fall to the padded floor.

The woman nodded approvingly. “That's very good, Jesse.”

“Where's my mama?”

“She's home. She's very worried about you.”

“I want to go home.”

“I wish I could get you out of here, Jesse, but I can't. There are some dangerous people involved in this.”

“Who?”

She bit her lip. “I can't tell you that, but they want you to show them your powers. Can you do that?”

“I won't do it. Not until I can go home.”

“It might make things easier, honey.”

“I don't care. I want to go home.”

She pointed at the cup. “Will you make the cup move for me, Jesse?”

“No.”

“Please?”

Jesse reared back and kicked the plastic cup across the room. He folded his arms in front of him.

The woman backed away. “Maybe this isn't the best time. You probably need to be alone for a while.”

Jesse fought back tears. He was trying to look tough, but he knew that his watery eyes were giving him away. “When can I go home?”

The woman also looked ready to cry. “I don't know, honey. I'm a prisoner here too.”

He took a step forward. “You are?”

She nodded. “And unless we can give these people what they want, I'm afraid that they're going to hurt us both.”

She turned away and walked toward the door panel.

L
yles pushed up the latch and swung open the gate to Toby Cooper's backyard. The aircraft mechanic lived in a modest ranch-style home in Smyrna, a working-class Atlanta suburb.

Three-fifteen
A.M.
He should have waited until later, but the cops might follow his trail, and he needed to stay ahead of them. They had already failed Jesse once.

Lyles pushed past the shrubbery growing on the side of the house. He stopped at the first bedroom window and pressed his ear against it. Silence. He stopped at the second window, which was cracked open an inch. He heard rapid, shallow breathing. A child, perhaps.

He entered the backyard and passed a rusty swingset and a long-neglected Jacuzzi. With only the moonlight to show the way, he glanced around for signs of a dog. There were none. Hallelujah.

He listened at the one remaining bedroom window, which was also cracked open. An adult was
inside, he thought. Sleeping alone. Only one car was in the carport, so that made sense. Lyles usually compiled a complete profile of a house's occupants before venturing inside, but there just wasn't time in this case.

He walked back to the window of the empty bedroom and pulled a glass cutter from his pocket. Definitely the best way in. A quick inspection assured him that there was no hard-wired security system, but that didn't preclude funky motion detectors or doorknob sensors. The bedroom window was a safer route.

He cut a small wedge of glass near the latch and poked it through with his index finger. The wedge popped out and fell silently to the carpeted floor. He threw the latch, slid open the window, and climbed inside.

He glanced around, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He was in a kid's playroom, decorated with Sesame Street posters, a rainbow-colored table, and dozens of action figures.

He crept through the dark house, scoping it for occupants. As he'd suspected, a small boy was sleeping in the front bedroom.
Keep sleeping, son, and you may live through the night.

There was no one in the living room or den, so that left only the back bedroom. He pushed open the door and looked inside. A chunky, fortyish man was framed in the moonlight, sleeping with his mouth wide open. Lyles leaned in and scanned the room until he saw a wallet resting on the chest of drawers only a few feet from the door. He picked it up and opened it. The driver's license confirmed that the
mouth breather was indeed Toby Cooper. Lyles pocketed the wallet and opened his nine-inch Smetson knife as he stepped toward the bed.

His shadow moved across Cooper's face. The man woke with a start.

Lyles shoved the knife tip into his chest, just breaking the skin. A small stain of blood spread from the knifepoint across Cooper's white muscle shirt.

Lyles leaned close and whispered, “If you want your little boy to live, nod your head.”

Cooper closed his eyes and nodded.

“If he wakes up while I'm here, I'll have to kill him, do you understand?”

Cooper nodded again.

“Good.”

“I have a coin collection that's worth thousands,” Cooper whimpered. “You can have it.”

“I don't want your coins. I want information.”

Cooper blinked several times as salty beads of perspiration ran into his eyes. “Fine. No problem.”

“A few months ago you replaced a Banshee tail rotor. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“Who owned the chopper?”

“I don't know.”

Lyles applied pressure with the knife.

Cooper gasped. “Some guy I'd never met. And I haven't seen him since.”

Lyles kept the pressure on. The bloodstain on Cooper's shirt spread faster.

“I promise!” Cooper said.

“Shh. Your son needs his sleep.”

Cooper nodded. He was crying.

“Do you have a name? An address? License number?”

“Yes, but not here. I keep a little office—a closet— at the airfield. My records are in the desk.”

“What airfield?”

“Charlie Brown. I can tell you exactly where my records are.”

“You're going to
show
me.”

“Please. Nobody's there until five. You can get them yourself. I won't tell anybody about this, I promise.”

Lyles backed away, picked up a pair of slacks from a stool, and tossed them to Cooper. “We're walking out the front door in thirty seconds.”

“What about my son?”

“He stays here and sleeps.”

After Cooper dressed, Lyles guided him out to the stolen Camry. He bound Cooper's hands and feet in duct tape for the ride to Fulton County Airport's Brown Field, called Charlie Brown by the locals. It was a small airfield with three short runways and half a dozen small hangars.

The airport was quiet, but Lyles knew there must be a guard on duty somewhere. He pulled behind a hangar and cut the tape from Cooper's ankles.

“If you try to run, I'll kill you, then go back to your house and carve out your son's eyes. Do you have any doubt that I'm capable of that?”

Cooper shook his head. “No.”

“Good.”

“My office is through that door.”

Lyles pulled him from the car and walked him into
the dim hangar, where several prop planes were parked at grimy repair stations. They walked to a small office, which indeed was no larger than a closet. The mechanic opened a file drawer and looked through the mass of invoice copies and repair orders.

He picked up one and handed it to Lyles with trembling hands. “This was the guy.”

Lyles looked at the handwritten name. “Rick Murphy?”

“Yes. I checked out his bird and saw that the rotor was about to go. I replaced it for him.”

“How did he pay?”

“It's there on the invoice. Cash. I wrote down his driver's license number, and the helicopter's serial number is there too.”

“What did he look like?”

“Jesus, this was like, three or four months ago.”

“Think.”

“Look, I could bullshit you and make up a description, but the honest truth is that I just don't remember. I'd tell you if I did. He didn't mean anything to me.”

Lyles believed he was telling the truth. Shit.

Cooper's voice shook. “That paper is what you wanted, right? Take it.”

Lyles folded the invoice copy and slid it into his jacket pocket. Cooper extended his wrists.

“What are you doing?” Lyles asked.

“Bind me with the tape again. Nobody will be here for another hour. That will give you more than enough time to make some tracks.”

“That's very considerate.”

He moistened his lips. “Unless there's … something else.”

“I'm afraid there is.”

Eight-twenty
A.M.
It was obvious to Joe that many of the sixteen detectives, uniformed officers, and forensics experts in Chief Davis's conference room hadn't slept. Tempers were frayed, and it was still too early for anyone to have a firm handle on what had happened to Jesse Randall the night before. Davis wanted answers, and when his personnel couldn't provide them, a lot of defensive posturing and finger pointing ensued.

No one had any idea who the kidnappers might be. Religious zealots on a mission to capture the Devil Child? Terrorists seeking the ultimate psychic weapon? Operatives from a mysterious government agency? Each explanation sounded more preposterous than the last.

The helicopter's license number was fake, and all serial numbers had been removed. A mechanic's inspection sticker had been found in the engine compartment, however, and a pair of officers were following up on it.

For Joe, it was merely the continuation of a bad day that had started when he woke early to tell Nikki about Jesse's abduction. She'd taken it hard.

There were no FBI agents present at Davis's task force meeting, although the chief had been promised cooperation from the agency. The feds had already
provided the police crime lab with blood samples from the church knockout gas victims.

The discussion soon turned to Joe and his investigation. “He's a kid,” Davis said. “If he's a fake, why haven't you been able to catch him?”

“I wasn't able to study him in a controlled environment. He hasn't been nearly as demonstrative with me as he was for Nelson and his team.”

“There were a couple of attacks on your life, Bailey. No explanation for that either?”

“Not yet,” Joe admitted. “I'm working on it. I sent samples of the bookcase base and the wooden floor to the lab. I think they may tell us something.”

“Maybe it's time to get someone else on the case. A fresh perspective.”

Joe leaned forward. “That would be a mistake.”

Davis turned to Howe. “What do
you
think about it?”

Joe closed his eyes. Here it comes.

“He's right,” Howe said. “It
would
be a mistake to reassign him.”

Joe shot him a sideways glance, waiting for the kicker.

Davis looked surprised. “Only a few days ago you asked your lieutenant to remove him from the investigation.”

“I've reevaluated my position.”

Davis nodded. “Fine. The two of you continue your investigation into Robert Nelson's murder. Keep the lines of communication open with Lieutenant Powell, who will be heading up the investigation into Jesse Randall's abduction.”

*   *   *   

The meeting broke up at a quarter to eleven. Joe caught up with Howe in the elevator.

“Thanks,” Joe said.

“For what?”

“The show of confidence.”

“It was born of desperation.
/
sure as hell can't figure out how Nelson was whacked. How was Cartersville?”

In all the commotion with Jesse's kidnapping, Joe hadn't told Howe about his conversation with the emergency room doctor. He quickly filled him in.

“Pig's blood?” Howe said as they stepped out of the elevator and into the narrow hallway that led to the homicide squad room.

“That's what the man said.”

“Had the girl just gotten off from a hard day at the slaughterhouse?”

“No, and her father lied about it. He told the attending physician that it was paint.”

“This is getting more bizarre by the minute.”

“Don't I know it.”

“I'll dig a little deeper into the Rawlings family. I'll subpoena their phone records and see if I can get Internet usage reports from their access provider. Maybe you can talk to the lady again.”

“You don't want to come with me?”

“She was a little scared of me. She liked you better, and she's more likely to give up more if you're there alone. I trust you.”

“Why are you being so decent all of a sudden?”

“I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to get
the shaft no matter what I do in this case. With that knowledge comes a certain freedom.”