Fatal Judgment (25 page)

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Jake stared through the window of the CP, feeling as chilled and bleak as the cold autumn darkness outside. Their only hope was that the ERT would unearth some piece of information that would allow them to ID the guy.

But he knew that was a long shot.

“He’s not giving us much to work with, is he?” Mark joined him, the frustration in his voice matching Jake’s own.

“No.”

“I’m heading home to grab a few hours of shut-eye. You might want to do the same so we can hit the ground running tomorrow. Clair will let me know if anything significant turns up in the meantime, and I can call you. It’s not like the night crew isn’t going to be all over this for the next few hours.”

Jake knew that was true. This case would be worked 24/7 until it was solved. But he couldn’t leave. Not yet.

“I think I’ll hang around awhile. No sense going home when I know I won’t sleep, anyway.”

A few seconds of silence ticked by.

“You know, when I was on the Hostage Rescue Team, my partner and I had a similar experience with a dignitary protection assignment. Everything that could go wrong did. But if it makes you feel any better, we salvaged the situation against all odds. He’s now happily married to the woman we were protecting, by the way.”

Jake frowned at him. “What’s that got to do with me?”

The agent shrugged. “I’m picking up some vibes that suggest Elizabeth Michaels is more than a job to you. We’re all committed to finding her in time, Jake. Hang in there.”

As the other man said good night and wove his way toward the door of the CP, Jake knew Mark meant well. And he didn’t question the commitment of the FBI or his marshal colleagues.

But he also knew the killer wasn’t likely to wait long to finish the job. The clock was ticking very fast. And with every second that passed, time was running out.

If it hadn’t already.

The sound of her teeth chattering woke her. That, and the crick in her neck.

Opening her eyes, Liz squinted at the shadowy outlines around her, trying to orient herself. Even after three weeks, the condo felt strange and unfamiliar.

Except this wasn’t the condo.

The memories came back in a sudden, jarring rush, and a surge of adrenaline cleared her mind and set her pulse racing as her gaze sought the bed in the far corner of the room.

The man who had killed her sister in cold blood—and who planned to kill her—continued to sleep under a mound of blankets in these predawn hours of what might be her last day.

Resentment and hate bubbled up inside her as she pulled herself into as tight a ball as possible to conserve body heat in the dank coldness of the unheated cabin. Her faith taught forgiveness, but nowhere in her heart could she find a shred of sympathy or mercy for Martin Reynolds.

If it were up to her, she’d consign him to hell in a heartbeat.

And she wasn’t going to meekly go along with his plan to kill her off so he could fulfill whatever misguided mission he was on.

Assuming Harold was safe by now—and she chose to assume that—she could come up with only one escape plan. She had to find a way to render Reynolds unconscious long enough to get some of his plastic restraints on him. And the best opportunity to do that would be during a trip to the outhouse, when her legs were free.

She didn’t have a clue how she could accomplish that, especially with her hands restrained. But there had to be a way. On her next trip out there, she’d take a closer look at the area and the interior of the small structure. Maybe she’d spot something that would inspire a plan.

The odds were against her, though. She knew that. Reynolds could overpower her with little effort. Yet she couldn’t give up without a fight.

With the possibility of failure so high, however, she needed to leave some proof she’d been here. Plant a few pieces of DNA evidence for the authorities to find. Because she wanted Martin Reynolds brought to justice.

Whether she survived or not.

Fingernails, she decided, would be a good place to start.

Catching the end of the latex glove in her teeth, she peeled it off. Then she lifted her thumb to her mouth and worked the nail with her teeth. She wanted a sharp edge on the first one.

After ripping the top of it off, she went to work on two more. Setting them carefully in her lap, she pressed her fingertips against the chair in several places, worked the glove back on again with her teeth, and waited—praying her abductor would give her a chance to set the fingernails on the floor once there was sufficient illumination in the cabin for her to scope out the area within arm’s reach.

An eternity later, as the first light of dawn began to peep around the window shade, Reynolds stirred. He did no more than cast a quick glance her direction before heading out the door.

This was her opportunity. Leaning over, she surveyed the floor. The dead bugs and line of dirt along the wall suggested he didn’t sweep often.

Good.

Bending down, she placed one polished nail upside down near the edge of the wall, beside a dust ball. The second she tucked halfway under the beam to which her ankle was shackled. The third she slipped into her shoe.

She was just finishing when he returned.

Without a word, he advanced toward her, revolver in one hand, hunting knife in the other. She tensed, but all he did was cut her ankle free from the plastic cuff, jerk her to her feet, and shove her out the door, in the direction of the privy.

Perfect.

Once inside the tiny structure, she took the fingernail out of her shoe and set it in the corner, beside a small pile of dirt, polish-side down. Then she worked off the glove on the hand with the jagged nail, pulled off a square of toilet paper, and folded it into fourths.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her bound hands, reached inside the top of her cardigan, and dragged her ragged thumbnail across the tender skin near her sternum, cutting deep enough to draw blood. She pressed the scrap of toilet paper against the cut and held it in place as long as she dared. Though the light was dim, she could tell when she withdrew it that there was a sizable splotch of blood. Squeezing it into a tiny ball, she wrapped it in another square of tissue and tucked it in her shoe. Later, when she had the opportunity, she’d find somewhere near her chair to plant it.

While she used the so-called facilities, she worked her fingers under the wig, separated a few strands of her own hair at the nape, and yanked. Hard. It brought tears to her eyes, but she blinked them away as she coiled the strands and stashed them under some dust.

A sudden pounding on the door made her heart stutter.

“I-I’m hurrying as fast as I can, but it’s hard with my hands bound.” She quickly left a few more fingerprints, then worked the glove back on.

Taking a rapid inventory of the outhouse, she saw nothing with any potential to be a weapon. The place was bare except for a roll of toilet paper stuck on a wooden peg.

Half a minute later, when she opened the door, Martin grabbed her arm and propelled her back to the cabin, clearly not happy about the delay. As she stumbled along beside him, she scanned her surroundings. A few sturdy boards lay on the ground near their route, beside a bin of firewood. If she yanked free, maybe the element of surprise would give her a chance to grab one and take a swing that would stun him long enough for her to get in a blow to his head.

But at the pace he was walking, she had no time to implement that plan. She’d have to wait until her next trip outdoors.

If there was a next trip.

Please, God, let there be a next trip!

Back in the cabin, he shoved her into the chair and tossed a restraint toward her, keeping a safe distance away as he kept the revolver trained on her.

She knew the drill by now. He expected her to secure her ankle to the support beam.

Once she’d done so, he checked it, tightening it a notch for good measure.

“Please, could I have a drink of water?” Liz doubted he’d respond, but she’d had no fluids in eighteen hours, and her mouth felt as dry as the shriveled cornstalks in the rural Missouri fields.

As she’d suspected, he ignored her request. Pulling on his own latex gloves, he took a sheet of paper out of the envelope on the kitchen table, extracted a pen from his pocket, and walked over to her.

Now that he’d gotten rid of the mustache and the baseball cap, she had no trouble recognizing him as the man who’d given her such a venomous stare after she’d directed the verdict in the malpractice case. The loathing and hate in his eyes hadn’t diminished one iota.

“Take this.” He shoved the pen at her.

She fumbled it as he retrieved a yellowed magazine from the table. Setting a typed document on top, he put it in her lap. She noted that it bore today’s date.

“Write these words at the bottom. Then sign your name.”

As he recited the single sentence, a chill raced through Liz that had nothing to do with the penetrating cold in the cabin. Her hand began to shake so hard her script was barely legible.

When she finished he picked up the sheet of paper. For a moment, he studied it, as if deciding whether it was readable. Apparently satisfied that it was, he returned to the table, folded it, and slipped it inside the envelope. Once he’d sealed the flap with a rag he dampened from a water bottle, he pocketed the envelope and exited through the front door. A couple of minutes later, she heard the engine of his car, followed by the crunch of gravel.

Liz had no idea how long he would be away. But she didn’t intend to assume she had another day to live. Every hour he held her captive increased his risk of being found. He had to know that.

Maybe she could find a way to free herself and get away before he returned.

Although the isolated cabin was deep in the woods, she’d paid attention during the drive and knew she could find her way to the tiny town they’d passed through a few miles from here. If she succeeded, the police could be waiting to welcome Martin home.

Clinging to that hope, she set to work.

______

Midmorning on Monday, as his BlackBerry began to vibrate, Jake took one hand off the steering wheel and pulled the device off his belt. A quick glance at caller ID set his pulse racing. Mark.

He wasted no time on a greeting. “Did the ERT come up with something?”

“No. But our man sent a letter to the
Post-Dispatch
. We just got the call. A couple of our guys are on their way over to pick it up now and get some elimination prints from whoever’s handled it there.”

“What does it say?” Jake switched lanes on I-64, heading for an off-ramp so he could reverse direction. His quick trip home from Liz’s condo for a shower and change of clothes could wait.

“Apparently it’s a long anti-government diatribe. From the initial read, it doesn’t offer any clues about where he’s taken the judge. But his intent to use her to gain attention for his cause is clear.”

“Maybe we’ll find some prints. Or DNA, if he licked the envelope.”

“Only if he was sloppy.”

They both knew he wasn’t.

“What’s the postmark?” Jake sped up the exit ramp.

“Afton.”

A South St. Louis suburb. “That could be the direction of his destination. Why would he drive around with Liz in the car any longer than necessary and risk detection? My guess is he wanted to get wherever he was going ASAP.”

“I agree. Where are you?”

Crossing the overpass, he wove around several cars, then turned onto the entrance ramp. “Heading eastbound on I-64. Are you at your office?”

Sometime during the night the higher-ups had made the decision to relocate the operations center to the FBI field office. There was no need to hang around the condo anymore.

“Yes. We may have the letter in hand by the time you arrive.”

Jake floored the Trailblazer. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Eight minutes later, Jake pushed through the front door of the FBI office. After clearing security, he was directed to one of the conference rooms that lined the cubicle-filled bull pen in the center of the first floor.

Mark and a mid-fortyish man with salt-and-pepper hair were seated at the rectangular table, poring over copies of the letter as he entered. Mark handed him one as he introduced Luke Garavaglia, assistant special agent in charge of the St. Louis operation.

Sparing the man no more than a quick handshake, Jake read the typed note, beginning with the bold quotes at the top of the page.

“Don’t interfere with anything in the Constitution. That must be maintained, for it is the only safeguard of our liberties.”

Abraham Lincoln

“The Constitution is not an instrument for the government to restrain the people, it is an instrument for the people to restrain the government—lest it come to dominate our lives and interests.”

Patrick Henry

Today, I abducted federal judge Elizabeth Michaels.

Soon she will die.

Here is why.

America is disintegrating. Our Constitution is being destroyed. Our rights are being violated by our government, just as they were in the days of our founding fathers.

Much of the blame rests in the hands of the decaying judiciary—the very courts that are supposed to serve us. We, the people. Instead, they are stripping away our rights. Day after day they break their vow to support the Constitution.

Our corrupt government has become an intimidating big brother filled with terrocrats, and the judiciary is its enabler.

It is time to stop the courts and the lawyers and the judges from crushing the life out of our Constitution and snatching away our freedoms. They are the criminals—not the people they prosecute . . . and persecute.

Look at what they’ve done to our constitutional right to bear arms. The restrictive rules and regulations that have been put in place are a direct threat to our life and liberty.

The courts of America belong to the people, not to government prosecutors and tyrannical judges. It’s time we took them back . . . and took the first step in returning this great country to the principles on which it was founded—self-reliance, respect for life and personal property, and the protection of our unalienable God-given rights.

When peaceful measures fail, as they have, it is our right—our duty—to use force to remove and replace abusive government and its agents.

Wake up, Americans. If you are a patriot, heed this call before it is too late.

Take back your country.

One terrocrat at a time.

At the bottom, handwritten and signed by Liz, was a brief, bloodcurdling message.

I am a sacrifice in the cause of liberty.

“Wow.” Jake fought back a wave of nausea as he groped for a chair and sank into it, the slight tremble in his hands the only visible indication of the roiling in his gut.

“That was our reaction.” Mark folded his hands in front of him. “We’re couriering the original to the lab, along with some handwriting samples we got from the judge’s office, and we’ve already faxed this to our profilers in Quantico. But I suspect we’re dealing with a fanatic associated with one of the sovereign citizen groups. Some of this stuff sounds as if it was pulled right off their literature and websites.”

“I agree.” As a U.S. marshal charged with protecting the judiciary, Jake was well briefed on the loose network of disgruntled individuals who claimed no accountability to the federal government and who often lashed out at courts and judges they felt had wronged them. The fifty-year-old movement was a mixed bag of tax protestors, white supremacists, fringe religious groups, desperate individuals—even prisoners.

Although its popularity had ebbed and flowed through the decades, he knew the past few years had seen a sharp increase in activity and threats against the judiciary. That was one of the reasons the Marshals Service had opened a high-tech Threat Management Center in Virginia, where intimidation tactics against judges were monitored and analyzed, and personnel could tap into classified FBI and CIA databases. He’d had contact with the center on a couple of occasions.

This might be another one.

As Jake scanned the copy of the letter again, his lips settled into a grim line. “This guy’s over the top.”

“Yeah. He’s way past paper terrorism.”

That was the typical tactic of such groups, Jake knew. They liked to file frivolous lawsuits and liens against public officials and law enforcement officers to intimidate them and clog up the court system.

Unfortunately, Liz had run into one of the zealots who had no compunction about using violence to dismantle the system. All in the name of patriotism.

“Do you think this has any connection to the Patriot Constitutionalists?” Luke asked.

Jake narrowed his eyes. “Who are they?”

“A very active local sovereign citizen group,” Mark replied. “I’ve been doing some undercover investigation on them, but I haven’t discovered anything incriminating. The leader, a former IRS agent turned psychologist named Jarrod Williams, is very charismatic—and very careful. I’ve been to a dozen meetings of his group, and I’ve never heard him advocate violence . . . or anything illegal. He’s masterful at coming up with ways to subvert the system within the confines of the law.”

“You think our guy might be part of that group?” For the first time, Jake allowed himself to hope they might have a lead, however slim.

“I don’t know.” Mark tapped his finger on the table as twin creases appeared on his brow. “The members are very close-mouthed. Most only share first names, if that. And I’ve never heard anyone mention violence. That doesn’t mean there aren’t some fanatics in the group, though.”

“We can’t blow your cover by sending you to talk to the guy,” Luke said. “I’ll have Nick pay Mr. Williams a friendly visit. See if he can ferret out any names of potential suspects.”

“I’d like to go along,” Jake spoke up. At least he’d be doing something; sitting around waiting for leads would drive him nuts.

“Okay by me.” Luke rose. “I’ll round up Nick. Mark can brief the two of you on Williams, and then you can head over to his office. Let’s take him by surprise. Give me five minutes.”

As he exited, Mark looked at Jake. “I know the judge said she never received any threats, but she clearly made an enemy somewhere along the line in her career.”

“Yeah.” Jake massaged his forehead with one hand. “I take it none of the files she turned over to you produced anything?”

“Not yet. We’re still checking out a few personalities. A lead may yet surface.”

A muscle clenched in Jake’s jaw. “We don’t have much time.”

“I know.” Mark’s somber expression matched Jake’s mood. “Let’s hope Quantico comes up with some trace evidence on the letter. Or Mr. Williams shares a piece of information that’s helpful.”

As they waited for Luke to return, Jake reread the letter, the word
hope
echoing in his mind. He hadn’t thought a lot about hope—or faith—since Jen died. Nor communicated much with God. His last plea to the Almighty, torn from his heart as he’d knelt on the snow-packed slope beside her, had been to spare her life.

God hadn’t listened.

And after she died, he’d realized his so-called faith had been a sham. It was Jen’s faith that had carried them as a couple. It was her urging that had compelled him to attend church each week. But though he’d gone through the motions, he’d never achieved the personal connection his wife had found so comforting.

He supposed dealing with criminals day in and day out was one of the reasons for that—along with the senseless violence he witnessed on a regular basis. On some subliminal level, the juxtaposition of evil and good must have negated his faith.

But until tragedy had shattered his own life, he’d never given that paradox much thought. And when he’d tried to reconcile a loving God with all the bad things that happened in the world—including Jen’s death—he’d failed. The admonition of the minister at her funeral, to trust in the Lord’s goodness and mercy, had fallen on deaf ears. His trust had been shattered. So he’d walked away.

And one visit to church, thanks to Alison’s prodding, hadn’t reestablished his connection with the Almighty.

Now, however, faced with another life-and-death situation, he was tempted to again ask the Lord to show him some of the goodness and mercy the minister had talked of.

But the words wouldn’t come. He’d have to leave the formal prayer to his mother.

And hope God might tune into the desperate plea echoing in his heart.

As Patricia stepped through the front door after her extended lunch with Molly, anxious to escape the wind that was making the thirty-five-degree temperature feel more like twenty, she frowned. The house was far too chilly.

With a loud meow of complaint, Josie padded in from the hall and twined herself around Patricia’s legs.

“I’m with you, kid.” Patricia leaned down and gave her a distracted pat.

Leaving her coat on, she walked to the thermostat in the hall. It was still set on seventy-two, as it had been since she’d arrived. But the temperature gauge read only sixty degrees.

Patricia huffed out a breath. It figured that Marty’s furnace would wait until he was out of town to act up.

She hadn’t planned to bother him during his short trip, but rather than pick a heating and cooling company at random from the phone book, it might be best to see if he had a preferred service company.