The Fourth Victim (15 page)

T
he rock surface beneath him was cutting off his circulation. Clay shifted his weight as well as he could, moving his legs—and wondered how in hell Kelly Chapman had endured two days on this surface without the ability to move more than a few inches.

“I'm reasonably certain we're safe here tonight,” he said now, thinking only of the facts before him.
Focus.
That was what it took. Focus. “If, as I suspect, our man is using a city-worker cover, he's not going to blow it by being out at night. Nor is he going to risk being stopped and questioned, which he could be if he were on the trail at night. A cop driving down one of the streets the trail crosses, having seen him, would surely ask if he needed assistance.”

She nodded.

“But by morning, all of that changes. There's going to be another search team out here. Our kidnapper, if he has connections and knows I'm on to his cover, that I've put out feelers for purchases of city uniforms and vehicles, could easily be among the searchers.”

Her chin tightened and she bit her lower lip, but she didn't drop her gaze.

“I want to take you to my place.” God, that sounded bad.
Come up and see my etchings.

“Most of the work I do, at this stage of a case, is by phone,” he said. “Coordinating, following up on leads. My agents are out in the field a good part of the day. In different circumstances I'd have other cases on my desk and be working on them, as well, but I've been assigned to you exclusively.”

Eyes wide, she continued to stare at him. And say nothing.

“I've got state-of-the-art security at my place,” he said, and tried to grin, but figured he'd failed miserably. “In my line of work you see how easy it can be for someone's safety to be breached.”

She nodded again.

“And most importantly, I can be here in town, solving this case, and protecting you, even at night, without raising suspicion. I'll be where I'm expected to be.”

“You're going to take me home with you?”

“Yes.” Clay wondered why her question had instilled an aggressive need to protect rather than a sense of obligation.

“At least until Monday, when we make the ransom exchange. In the meantime, I'll have someone posted on all trail points in case the kidnapper comes back to get you before then.”

“Okay.” Just like that. No tears. No complaints.

Clay worked with lots of strong women. JoAnne Laramie, for example. But he'd never seen one as soft—was that the right word?—as Kelly Chapman and as self-sufficient at the same time.

He handed her the foil bag. “Eat a little more and drink what you can to get some of your energy back, and then we have to go. We need you at my place before it starts to get light.”

“Where do you live?”

“Edgewood.” In a nice subdivision with an acre and a
half of wooded lawns. Where she'd be trusting him with her life.

“I'm sorry it has to be this way.”

“Don't be sorry, Agent Thatcher. I'm grateful. Extremely grateful. I'm just not sure why you're willing to do this for me.”

The “Agent Thatcher” had to go….

Before he could say that, she went on. “I will do whatever you tell me to do until we find this guy, so I can get back to Maggie without putting her at risk. She's the one who's been through enough. The kid's fourteen years old and has endured more hardship than most adults twice her age.”

She hid her fear well. But he saw it, lurking beneath the shadows in her eyes.

Was he crazy?

“I think it's a good plan,” she said.

Clay studied her. And saw the eyes in the photo on his dash. What the hell was going on here? “You're sure?”

“Positive.” She nibbled on dried fruit and dehydrated beef. Swallowed. “Terrified, but positive.”

“Then I have one more request.”

“What?”

“Don't call me Agent Thatcher. My name's Clay.”

Cave
Sunday, December 5, 2010

As Clay talked about getting me out of there, I was a lot calmer than I would've expected to be. It was like I was living in some kind of suspended reality, a place with no rules, no common understanding. I was taking each minute, each second, as it came to me.

“I know what I'm doing.” I said the words out loud as I
sat there looking at the frown on Clay's face. “I don't like the situation, but I really do believe that your suggestion is the best one.”

“I have to be honest with you about something.” His expression was pained, his cheeks pinched. Uncomfortable.

“What?”

“I have another reason for wanting to do this.”

Maybe I should've been worried. I wasn't. More of that suspended reality thing? “What is it?”

“This might be a clichéd way of putting it…but I've taken ownership of this job.”

In my regular life I was used to hearing confessions—though not like a minister or priest. My job involved understanding, not judging. Or absolving.

“I don't know how you could help it in your job. You deal with life-and-death emotions every single day.” It felt good to have a normal moment.

“No.” He shook his head, but didn't lower his gaze. “I mean this particular case. You. I don't want to turn your care over to anyone else.”

Oh. “Why?”

“Because I know I can get these guys and I don't trust anyone else to watch over you like I will.”

“Are you an egotistical man?”

“Probably. But that's not what this is about.”

“What is it about, then?”

“I'm not sure.” He shook his head again, still looking me in the eye. “I just feel strongly that I don't want to turn this one over. I wanted you to know so that if my reasoning has any flaws, if I'm manipulating the situation so I can keep this case, you have a chance to find me out.”

A man with integrity. If I wasn't already suffering from a bad case of hero worship, he'd just started one.

“Thank you,” I said. “If I'd seen any flaws in your reasoning, I wouldn't have agreed to the plan.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” I was losing energy again. “Do you mind, though, if I change into…” I gestured to the clothes he'd pulled out of the bag. I couldn't ride in his car smelling like I did.

He held out the pants.

“Could you please turn around and move away?”

He reached into the bag and handed me a container of antibacterial wipes, then turned away, hunched down and pushed himself as close to the entrance as he could get without hitting his head.

 

It was fifty-six degrees in there, but Clay was sweating. He could hear fabric rustling. And squelched all visions of his victim pulling pants down those long, firm thighs. She'd be forced to go more slowly due to the bandages on her hands.

Using every ounce of mental control he had, he tried not to remember how muscled her lower limbs had felt as he'd run his hands along them earlier.

He'd been thinking only of broken bones and other injuries when he'd touched her before. What a cruel trick of human nature that his mind had stored other pieces of intimate information to taunt him now.

More rustling. She'd been wearing insulated under-alls.

And one more time—barely audible. Panties.

He heard the tear of the wipe's wrapper.

Her bottom was naked over there. Behind him.

And he was a sick man for thinking about it.

He heard cloth rubbing against skin, and pictured the gauze he'd placed around those delicate, feminine hands….

First thing in the morning he'd call JoAnne. Have her come out with the others who'd be going over the bike path one more time, searching for utility-vehicle tire tracks that veered off the path….

Material rustled again. Were her legs white? Or did they have the golden sheen of year-round tan…?

“Okay, all done.”

He turned too soon. Saw her rolling her track pants around a flimsy scrap of white lace and, taking the bundle, she crawled back and stashed it behind the curve in the wall. Her bottom faced him for those few seconds.

She wasn't wearing panties under those sweats….

Clay almost took himself off the case then and there.

Cave
Sunday, December 5, 2010

I
watched Clay try to get comfortable in what had become his half of the cave during the hour or so we'd been sitting there talking. He adjusted and readjusted himself. Bent one leg, then the other.

He was a man who needed to be pacing, I decided. Whereas I dreaded actually moving. After two days of forced nonmovement, my entire body was achy and stiff.

Clay figured I should have another half hour of slow eating and drinking before we headed out.

We'd been talking about David Abrams. I told him everything I knew about the man. And then moved on to my impressions of him—admittedly biased. We repeated information we'd already discussed.

And then something struck me. A memory. Or a dream?

“I saw a boot,” I said slowly, hoping I was right. And afraid that I wasn't. God, I hated this—not being in control of my own mind.

Not being certain of it.

Just the idea of not being clear-minded panicked me.

And I couldn't remember…couldn't be sure…

“Saw a boot where?” Clay's look was intense.

“I'm not positive. In here, I think. I can't remember much about Friday. I slept for a long time. I think maybe he drugged me….”

“He might've held something over your face to knock you out. You also have a large bruise on your temple,” Clay reminded me—not like I could forget. My head still throbbed.

“What kind of boot did you see?”

Back to the boot. I tried to pull out the memory. Make it clear. “It's black,” I said, feeling certain about that. “A work boot, maybe, with a thick rounded toe.”

“What size?”

“I just saw the front of it.”

“Did it have laces?”

“I just saw the toe.”

“Steel-toed?” He held my gaze, and I pictured the boot.

“Yes,” I said, slightly relieved to be able to answer his question. “Yes, it was one of those steel-toed boots.” And then I was forcibly struck by another impression. “I think I was lying down when I saw it. It was at eye level.”

Expression grim, Clay said, “Maybe that's how you got your head injury.”

“How?”

“Maybe he kicked you.”

God, I hoped not. Just the idea of someone kicking me, especially when I couldn't do anything about it, made me want to curl up in the fetal position.

But Clay could very well be right. I tried to remember. To know for sure what had happened to me.

“There's something else.” Not about the boot, I didn't think, but…

“What?”

“I just remembered being on the track.” Speaking slowly I tried to stay calm—to give my thoughts the space they needed to reveal themselves to me.

My head hurt so much. And thinking just made it worse. But I had to know. Had to help him in any way I could.

Tears choked my throat, filled my eyes. I wanted to lie down and go back to sleep.

But I made myself look at Clay. And look within myself, as well. I could do this. I was strong. Right?

“I heard a noise,” I said as the memory surfaced, briefly, and then left again.

“What kind of noise?”

I stared at him. “I don't know. It was there and then…it was gone.” I hated feeling so stupid. So helpless.

“Relax,” Clay told me what I'd told hundreds of people throughout my career. “It'll come back to you when you're ready.”

He was right. I knew that. And yet I still wanted to come up with whatever information was hidden within my brain. Come up with it as quickly as possible.

According to Clay, more than a hundred people had been up and down the eighteen-mile bike path in the past two days—although that astonished me. I hadn't heard a thing.

Because I'd been unconscious?

Or had I heard and just couldn't remember?

Those searchers hadn't heard me calling out, either, although now I wasn't even sure I had. I remembered being afraid to make a sound in case my kidnapper came back to hurt me. In case he was watching me.

“My guess is it was dark when you called out,” he said. “The searches were called off at dusk.”

In any case, one hundred people had been searching and they hadn't found me.

Clay had.

And there was something else I had to tell him.

Resting my head against the wall, I tried to hide. From Clay. From hard truths. And knew I couldn't hide anymore.

“There's another possibility here.” Panic swamped me anew as I heard my voice say the words—as I heard the door open.

It was a more insidious panic than I'd been feeling on and off for the past two days. It climbed slowly through me and held on, destroying me from the inside out.

I recognized the feeling. And fought it.

“Did you just remember something?” Clay was staring at me and, judging by the concerned look on his face, some of what I was feeling must've been showing on mine.

“No. Except…I know of someone else who might be behind this.”

“Who?”

“My father.” Saying the words brought no relief. Only more of that feeling of debilitating helplessness. There were just some things I couldn't avoid. Couldn't fix. Couldn't change.

No matter how many degrees I got or how successful I became. I could help a thousand people and still not be able to help him.

“Your parents are both dead,” he said slowly, enunciating each word as though he wasn't sure I'd understand them.

“My mother's dead,” I told him. “My father isn't.”

Some quality in my voice must have alerted him to my lucidity because Clay sat back, leaned against the wall across from me and asked, “Where is he?”

“I'm not sure. Last I knew he was someplace in Tennessee.”

“Your car was found in Tennessee. In Knoxville.”

Had he told me that already? I didn't remember hearing
it. And was flooded with a series of questions. “You said my purse is gone. What about my cell phone?”

“Gone, too, although no calls have been made from it. Your car had been completely cleaned out. Professionally cleaned. Vacuumed. Shampooed. Inside and out. Maggie said you had zipper pulls in the console, and a little beanbag dog on the dash.”

“That's right.” Those zipper pulls had been a symbol to Maggie and me. We'd thought it an omen that we'd found a
Kelly
one and a
Maggie
one. I'd bought them and she put them on the dash. She'd said they were like a promise of more trips together in the future. We were going to collect tags from each state we visited together.

I could remember the incident as clearly as if it was happening right then.

“They were gone, too.”

I teared up again. And made myself stop. I couldn't afford to be weak right now.

“Tell me about your father.”

“He was my mom's dealer. And probably her pimp, too. Her pimp first. She quit hooking when she got pregnant with me.” My head against the wall, I kept talking. “She tried to stop the drugs while she was pregnant, but she never totally quit using. I'm lucky I wasn't born a crack baby.”

“The state let you stay with her?”

“Other than the drugs, she was a good mom. Good enough to convince child protective services that I was healthy, safe and loved. At least to their standards.”

“Were you?”

“She loved me. She loved herself and drugs more. It took me a long time to figure that out.”

I knew Clay was a smart man when he didn't push any further. My life growing up had nothing to do with tonight.

“Was your father in the picture?”

“On and off until I was three. Then, after that, my mother told me he was dead. I didn't find out differently until she died. He showed up at the trailer the day of her funeral.”

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“And you still lived at home with her?” From one professional interrogator to another…

“No. I had my own place. I'd tried to get her to move in with me, but she wouldn't leave the trailer. I was there trying to decide what I was going to do with her stuff when he knocked on the door.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No. And I didn't believe him when he told me who he was. I assumed he was one of my mother's druggie friends trying to get something out of me. I sent him away with a threat to call the police.

“The next week, I did some checking and found out that the man named on my birth certificate was very much alive. The next time he came by, I made him give me a DNA sample. The third time, I handed over the money he asked for in return for his silence regarding my paternity.”

“He's been blackmailing you.”

“No. He didn't threaten to tell anyone who he was. He just wanted money. And I knew I was going to give it to him. He was my father. And although that meant nothing except a biological detail—at the same time it meant
something.
He's the only living family I have. I'm the one who made the stipulation. But if he hadn't agreed to my terms, I'd have given him the money, anyway.”

“Do you think he knew that?”

“No.”

I closed my eyes again, thinking back. Not because I wanted to talk about any of this, but because I had to
tell Clay everything I knew in case he found a clue there. Something I'd missed myself, being too close.

“I tried to get him clean and sober. I paid for treatment centers. For personal therapy. I made weekly visits and phone calls. Nothing worked. And I finally had to realize that nothing would work for one reason and one reason only.” I looked at Clay. “He doesn't want to be clean. He is what he is and he's comfortable with the life he lives.”

Hard to believe, even though I knew firsthand the vagaries of the human condition.

Clay's look was intent again—and focused on me. “When was the last time you heard from him?”

“After I got back from Michigan. He stopped by the house one morning. Maggie had just left for school.” And this was why I had to tell Clay about him. “I panicked.” As usual. Every single time the man showed up in my life, whether by phone call or in person, I panicked. Pure and simple.

“I was afraid he'd find out about Maggie. I didn't have any clear idea of what he could do to her, or would do to her, I just didn't want him touching her life in any way. And I didn't want him in mine.”

“You were starting a new family. You didn't need him.”

My thoughts slowed. I heard his words, and knew I'd think about them again.

“I told him to leave, that I wasn't giving him any more money. Period. I told him that if he ever contacted me again, I'd have him arrested.”

Eyes narrowed, Clay studied me until I felt like some kind of specimen. “So he has a grudge” was all he said.

“I guess so.”

“But this scheme, the elaborate planning, the patience…is he capable of such a thing?”

“He has an IQ of one hundred and thirty.”

My mom had barely been able to finish high school. She'd never been particularly smart. But I'd whizzed through school without even trying. I'd have gotten that ability from somewhere. So back when I'd been desperately fighting the truth about my paternity, which was staring me in the face, I'd asked him to agree to a series of tests.

The results had astounded—and sickened—me. So much potential. So much waste. And I'd gotten part of who I was from him.

“What's his name?”

I hesitated. And I thought of Maggie. Of getting home to her. “Ezekial.” The word burst out of me. “Ezekial Greene.”

“Ezekial?” I could see the question in Clay's raised eyebrow.

“His father was a pastor—believe it or not.”

“I'll put an APB out on him first thing in the morning,” Clay said.

I hoped my drug-addicted father was the kidnapper. I hoped they arrested him and got him off the street. And I didn't feel even a twinge of guilt for that sentiment.

What did that say about me?