The Fourth Victim (20 page)

That was the first thing he'd said that didn't make me want to spit angry words.

“But you were even more right than you realized in your assessment of Abrams's power over her. Sam is convinced that Maggie intuitively knows something about your disappearance. Something that contradicts her version of reality. The knowledge is eating the kid alive. She's not sleeping. She's not eating. She's getting hysterical. After one of the agents saw Abrams in the woods yesterday, it became obvious that he's continuing to feed the hold he has on her. We figured it was only a matter of time before she slipped away from us and went to him. So…we let it happen. Kyle took her to your place. Sam called, with a supposed emergency with Kyle's grandfather. He left, telling Maggie to wait there for him. He wasn't gone five minutes before she was on her bike and headed out to the woods. We had agents on the streets, in the woods, even in a tree above their meeting spot. There was not one second that she was out of sight of trained professionals. The idea was that as soon as Abrams showed, Sam had him. All she needs is evidence of them together to prove the association, to be able to get charges pressed against him and put him away. That's why she agreed to the plan.

“Our part in it was to get Abrams to confess what he'd done with you. Or to get Maggie to do it after he was arrested.”

I wasn't placated. I would never have agreed to the plan. But I was able to keep my mouth shut long enough to think about what he was saying.

“Until my agent saw Abrams in the woods, Sam truly believed the man wouldn't risk his life, risk everything he'd built, for a meeting with Maggie. After we told her Abrams had been to their clearing in the woods, she knew that—for Maggie's sake—she had to do whatever it took to get the man. We'd much rather have her go to him while
we're watching, than sneak in a rendezvous behind our backs when there's nothing we can do to help her. Or stop him.”

“What happened when she saw him?” I had to know. Even if the answer destroyed me.

“He didn't show.”

“So Sam was right. Maggie's not worth the risk to him.”

I wasn't as surprised as I could've been when Clay shook his head. “He's not going to give up on her,” my rescuer said. “He can't. His going there is proof of that. But he's being careful. Very, very careful. Which concerns me most of all. The man's calculating. He has plans. He doesn't make mistakes.”

“He's biding his time,” I said, understanding what he was telling me. Maggie was in danger. Terrible danger. And what could I do except sit here? “He's going to get her, but in his own time and his own way.”

Clay Thatcher leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, and took one of my hands in both of his. He met my gaze with a look so steady and serious I was captivated.

“He is not going to get her,” he said. “I give you my word on that.”

I wanted to believe him.

M
ore than three hundred tips came in on the Ezekial Greene hotline. Most of them led nowhere. Clay had Barry and JoAnne following up on the ones that could be legitimate while he followed up with the state and FBI bomb squads.

All elementary schools included in the original search were clean. He expanded the search. And added day cares in the Knoxville and Chandler areas. A couple of discount stores in the Dayton area had turned up on Clay's radar. They'd sold all the materials needed for various types of homemade bombs during the time frame in question—and Clay went with members from each of the squads to speak with store managers and owners, to view tapes of purchases where available, hoping that if they hadn't found the bombs before the 11:45 drop-off, they'd at least know what kind of bomb they were dealing with.
If
they were dealing with one… But they couldn't take the chance. They'd have protocols in place to disarm the bombs and limit damage.

He focused on facts and piecing together puzzles. He did not think about the woman he'd left still asleep in the bed across the hall from his room. He'd set the security alarm and resecured the dead bolt lock just after six that morning.

He couldn't call her. Couldn't text message or email her. He couldn't have any contact with her outside his home. He had to trust that she'd do as he'd instructed and, if something went wrong, that she'd use the gun he'd given her.

A man matching Ezekial Greene's description had purchased enough quantities of propane and alarm clocks to assemble at least three self-detonating explosives. They knew about plan A. He obviously had a plan B, as well. Which didn't surprise Clay at all. Fit the man's profile.

He showed the manager of the department store the composite drawing they had of Greene. A drawing Kelly had already confirmed as a depiction of her father. The manager, in turn, showed Clay and the agent and officer with him the video of the man who'd made the purchase.

He had a printed photo of the man in his jacket pocket as he made his way back to Edgewood just before ten o'clock Monday morning. They had an hour and forty-five minutes to find Kelly Chapman's father.

Or to find the bombs he'd made.

Fifty men and women were in the field, combing the neighborhoods and areas in and around the purchase store. They were showing Greene's picture to public transit drivers, and an emergency newsflash was being broadcast on all local programs.

Schools and day cares within a fifty-mile radius were being evacuated, just in case Greene planned to have the bomb delivered somehow rather than planting it.

And Clay was heading home to a source no one knew he had.

Edgewood, Ohio
Monday, December 6, 2010

I'd spent much of the morning in the bathroom off my bedroom. It was actually rather pretty. Whoever had owned
the home before (since Clay Thatcher would never have done this) had hung wallpaper with little pink roses, complemented by a mauve chair rail.

The cupboards were white, the counter marbleized porcelain, and most of all I loved the garden tub. It was completely stark now—except for the dust that congealed when it got wet—but I pictured it with a vase of flowers in one corner, a basket with some pretty bottles of bubble bath and a loofah in another, a rose collage on the wall.

A separate shower stall—which was what I'd used the day before—stood at the other end of the bathroom.

With some plush rugs on the ceramic tile floor, a light pink silk shower curtain and some thick mauve towels hanging on the rack, the room would be lovely.

That morning it was perfect for me because it had no windows. I could pace and move about and not worry about attracting attention from anyone who might be out there. Anyone who might notice movement in the home of a single man who was supposed to be away at work.

Who knew if Clay Thatcher had nosy neighbors?

Or kind neighbors who watched out for him?

I cleaned the tub. And using the flowery-smelling shampoo my host had purchased for me, a purchase I was going to repay as soon as I had access to my own funds, I prepared a bubble bath.

I'd made a brief trip to the kitchen earlier, ducking when I passed the windows, to help myself to some granola bars and Diet Coke. I'd gone over my notes. I needed to skate.

And every time I looked at the pair of wheels I'd worn for forty-eight hours, I couldn't breathe. I had to get back on those skates as soon as I possibly could.

I was not going to let this fiend, whoever he was, rob me of one of my most joyous pastimes.

Now that I was feeling physically better, I checked my body over more thoroughly as I stripped for the bath. The
swelling on my temple had gone down, and with my hair covering that bruise, I didn't look quite so battered. The scrape on my cheek had been superficial and was barely discernible. Or so I told myself. My hands were scabbing over and didn't sting at all except when I got them wet. But I had a lot of bruises. Some larger than others. A peculiar one just under my right armpit, on my side. It looked like fingerprints.

Where the guy had lifted me? I checked my other side, but didn't find a matching set.

I'd heard a sound on the bike path that morning. Behind me. The memory was briefly there, and then gone again.

But I was certain the sound had come from behind me. I just wasn't sure what it was. Or where, exactly, I was at the time. On my skates?

I tried so hard to remember.

But I couldn't.

The bath would've been much better in the evening, with soft music and a glass of wine. And my own tub.

It would have been better, too, if sitting in the tub hadn't brought back memories of sitting on a hard surface for hours and hours. That feeling drove me from my bath before I'd even turned off the water filling the tub.

I'd hurriedly soaped and sponged myself. I was clean. And wasn't that what baths were for?

My hands were shaking too much to use any of the makeup Clay had provided. I didn't use a lot of the stuff, anyway, but a little eyeliner would've been nice. And some foundation to cover the bruising. Sunscreen.

Because I might just be free today. Within hours.

I couldn't wait to feel the sun on my face. Even if it was cold December sun. One thing was for certain: I was never, ever going to take the weather for granted again. Rain. Sun. Snow. I wanted them all. Wanted to feel them all. See them all.

By the time I was dressed, I was feeling somewhat okay again. As though I could manage. I was going to be fine. I knew that. I'd get through this. And I'd move on and life would be good.

I'd make it good.

Because I'd learned a long time ago that I could.

I had to focus on the future. And when I got home, I'd focus on the present.

I could start by getting back up on my skates. Clay had a two-car garage. His car was gone. Which meant there was a two-bay space for me. The only windows were small, up at the roofline, which let in light but didn't make the inside of the garage visible.

Skating was part of my mental health regime. It was how I dealt with stress. Kept myself healthy and fit. I was not going to be victimized even further by allowing someone to make me fear what I most loved.

I would skate. Period.

I would be healthy.

I repeated the mantra as I grabbed my skates from the floor of the room I'd been assigned. I didn't look directly at them, but I picked them up. Their weight felt familiar in my hands. The padded rim at the ankle, the loops I crooked my finger in to transport the skates, all were normal.

Walking slowly for some reason I didn't dwell on, I made my way to the garage, careful to open the door quietly. Clay had more than an acre of land. The sound of a door opening and closing was unlikely to travel. But being extra careful wasn't a bad thing right now.

I hadn't changed back into the sweats, though I never skated in jeans. It wasn't like I was going to get a workout in the garage. I was just going to put the skates on. Move around in them. Let my feet get comfortable with them again. I was going to feel the ground glide beneath me, a feeling I knew well. One that denoted wellness to me.

Wellness and strength. Ability. Freedom.

Heaviness engulfed me as I sat down on the garage floor and took the first skate in my hands. I'd put on my socks to go with the two big tennis shoes. All that was left to do was slide my foot inside the waiting boot.

I tried. And couldn't breathe. Which was ridiculous. There was absolutely nothing the matter with me physically.

I tried again. The skate was heavy. I let it drop. And picked it back up. My toes cramped, and I wiggled them. I couldn't catch my breath. What if I was having a heart attack?

I was
not
having a heart attack.

I shoved my foot into the skate. My throat got tight, as if I was going to cry. I swallowed past the lump that formed there and picked up skate number two.

By the time I got my foot into the skate I was crying.

Fine. If I had to cry, I'd cry. Tears weren't going to stop me from doing this. I would not let someone else take my life from me. I would not.

I stood.

I would not let anyone take my life from me.

I rolled a couple of inches. And lost my balance. I didn't fall down, but I lurched and righted myself. Because I was a good skater. I had instincts. I'd save myself. I knew how. I could count on myself.

Couldn't I? I'd show me. Pushing off gently with one foot, I glided a couple of yards, turning before I hit the wall, then pushed with my other foot. One foot and then the other. That was all it took.

I was sobbing. Huge racking sobs that were interfering with my balance. But I would not stop. And I would not fall.

I would not—

I heard a car in the drive.

And dove for the door into the house. I had to get in that door. Get to safety. Clawing at the door handle, my hand slipped. Missed. I bumped my wrist, my feet were sliding out from under me. I grasped the knob. Turned, shoving with all my might, and crying so hard I could barely see.

The door gave. I fell inside, curling up into a little ball against the kitchen cupboard as I heard the door close behind me.

 

Clay's eye was trained on the eating nook at the far end of his kitchen as he came through the door from the garage. There was no reason for him to expect to see Kelly Chapman sitting at the table, except that, other than when she was sleeping, that was the only place in his house he'd seen her.

In his mind, that chair had become almost synonymous with her. Which explained the immediate shard of panic that went through him when he saw the vacant chair.

He strode forward and…tripped. Clay just caught himself, avoiding a face-plant on the hard ceramic floor, but noticed, in the process, that he'd stumbled over an in-line skate.

A second later, realized that the skate was attached to his reluctant housemate.

“I'm so sorry.” Kelly's eyes were wide, her voice steady as she pulled her foot back. She'd been sitting upright, leaning against the cupboard, as though she hadn't heard the automatic garage door that should've alerted her to his presence. Or heard the car door or his key in the lock.

Kneeling down, he took in her body at a glance. Nothing was twisted or out of place. There was no blood that he could see. And then he looked at her face. “It's like falling off a horse,” she said with a tremulous grin. “You have to get right back up on the darn thing or be afraid of it for life.”

She'd been trying on her skates. And she'd been crying.

“How'd it go?” he asked, settling on the floor beside her because he wasn't sure what else to do. This woman was like none other he'd ever known. She didn't give up. She didn't give herself any slack, either.

He was beginning to feel like a slacker.

Her shrug said it all. “Okay, for a first try. My facilities were limited.” She excused what was obviously more of a failed attempt than a successful one. “A garage floor and a bike bath provide vastly different opportunities.”

“So what really happened?”

She looked right at him. “I heard your car, and I remembered what that noise was, the noise I told you about, and panicked.” Her eyes teared up.

“What was the sound?”

“A motor, coming up behind me. He was on a cart, just like you said. I turned to look and saw him zip up beside me. I thought he was going to drive on by. He was off the cart before I knew what was happening. He tripped me. My helmet hit the pavement—and that's the last thing I remember.”

“He. You saw him, then.”

“No.” Her expression pained, she shook her head. “I saw the hat. The brim was low. He was wearing a jumpsuit and gloves.”

“What about his face? His chin? Was he black or white?”

“I only caught a glimpse. He wasn't dark-skinned, I know that. His face was shadowed, though, so I'm not sure….”

“Was it Ezekial?”

“I don't know, Clay. I should. I'm so sorry for not being more help, but I just don't know.”

“It
could
have been, then?”

“Yeah. It could've been.”

“Is this him? Is this Ezekial?” Clay pulled the photo from the store's surveillance video out of his pocket. He hated to stress her any more at the moment, but he had no choice.

She took a quick glance, then turned her head away. “Yeah. That's dear old dad.”

“He bought explosives, Kelly. Enough to make three pretty good-size bombs. He bought them in Trotville.” Clay named the chain store in the town next to Brookwood, another Dayton suburb. “Paid cash for them. He's not fooling around here. We've cleared out all schools and day cares in the area, but I need you to think. If you had to predict what he'd do next, what would it be? Something involving kids. I need every memory you've got. No matter how insignificant. Anything you come up with, anything you can tell me…it could mean the difference between saving lives and losing them. There's only an hour and a half left before he starts his rampage. His possible rampage.”