Captured (11 page)

“Look at this one.” Zack holds a third photo out to me.

It’s a studio shot. Based on the Easter motif, I’d guess it was taken about this time last year. Stephanie is kneeling in the grass, a boy in her lap. Stuart is crouched down alongside of them, holding a bunny. There are chicks and brightly colored eggs in the foreground.

But the face in this photograph is not their son’s. The face belongs to Cooper Anderson. Cut out from what appears to be a recent photo and pasted over that of the Masons’ dead son. I can see there are other faces layered underneath Cooper’s, but I’ll let forensics peel them away. I already know whose faces they’ll be.

Zack is moving into the next room. I follow him to what turns out to be the kitchen.

The amount of white is overwhelming. White appliances, white tile floors, white walls, white cabinets. Everything appears neat and orderly. The round dining table is set for two. There’s a pot on the stove, filled with water and sliced potatoes. The oven was left on. I crack it open, smoke rushes out. There’s a forgotten roast inside, burnt to a crisp.

“Let’s check the other rooms,” says Zack.

There are only three others.

The bathroom is like the kitchen: white walls, white tile, white towels. There are three toothbrushes in the holder. One belongs to a child. I’m betting the DNA will match Cooper Anderson’s. We move on to the first bedroom.

The bedspread and drapes here are floral chintz, the walls a light blue. One nightstand contains two prescription bottles. The first is labeled fluoxetine, the second olanzapine. Both prescribed by a Dr. Benjamin Friedman. I hold them out for Zack to see.

“These are the generics for Prozac and Zyprexa,” I say. “They’re overdue for refill.”

“I know Prozac is for depression. I’m not familiar with the other one.” Zack jots down Friedman’s phone number and places the bottle back on the nightstand.

“Zyprexa is an anti-psychotic,” I explain. “If Friedman is her therapist, he wasn’t doing her much good. Let’s hit the last room and then give Dr. Friedman a call.”

Zack nods. Lips pursed together, he lets me lead the way down the short hall to the final room. There are locks on the outside of the door. Three of them. The door is currently open. We push through. The bedroom faces the back of the house. The two windows are boarded up with plywood. On the surface it looks like a typical boy’s room—race car bed, Legos, trains, stuffed animals and books. But then I look closer. Someone attached four-point restraints to the bright blue racer. A chain is bolted to the floor in the center of the room. I pick up the end and stretch it out. It almost reaches the wall. Almost.

Zack is examining the contents of the nightstand. There’s a roll of duct tape in view. He picks something up. A syringe. A small bottle filled with a clear liquid rests on the table alongside it. He reads the label. “Etorphine. The forensics team needs to get here. See if they can tell us what it is.”

Zack’s cell phone rings. He sets the bottle back down and answers. Listens.

Since I don’t have supersonic Were hearing, I have to be patient. I can tell from his expression, though, the news is good.

After what seems like an eternity he says, “We’re on our way.” Then to me, “The police have spotted Mason.”

CHAPTER 10

Too late.

Biller calls as we’re on the road and tells us by the time the police closed in, Mason was gone. His work cell phone records showed an incoming call five minutes before police arrived on the scene from his wife. She must have caught the Live5 news report.

“Son of a bitch,” Zack blurts out.

The phone is on speaker. “What else?” I ask.

“GPS tracking placed him at a residence down the block from the postal truck,” Biller says. “The fact that his mailbag was locked inside the truck means he took the time to return to it. He probably spent less than a minute or two deciding whether to take the truck or leave on foot. Since his cell phone and the vehicle were left behind, it appears he chose the latter. Good luck for us. We set up a three-quarter mile perimeter. Bloodhounds are on the way.”

“How long before you can get a Forensic team out to the Mason house?” I ask.

“I’m surprised you didn’t see them before you left. They should be there now,” Biller answers. “You heading back or continuing on to Mason’s last location?”

Zack is already heading for the highway. “We’re going to Longborough. Maybe we can aid in the search.”

I disconnect the call. I know what Zack is thinking. If he can pick up the scent of Mason’s trail and narrow down the direction in which he fled, it could save hundreds of man-hours.

He turns on the blue LED flashers and floors the SUV. As we bolt down the busy I-26, Zack’s expression is one of grim determination. He’s taken three items of clothing from the Mason house and each is in an evidence bag in the back: a woman’s blouse and a man’s T-shirt taken from the hamper in the Mason’s bedroom and a pair of shorts and socks taken from the hamper in the room where Cooper Anderson was presumably held.

Suddenly we’re forced to slow down while Zack navigates around the slow traffic caused by a jackknifed semi. He quickly pulls to the shoulder. I have to resist the urge to grab the panic bar as we veer over uneven pavement. After a few minutes, we slow down to a snail’s pace.

I take advantage of the lull and call Stephanie Mason’s psychiatrist. Fortunately, his receptionist tells me I’ve caught Dr. Friedman between patients. While I wait for him to come on the line, I put the call on speaker.

When he does, and I explain the urgency of the situation, he doesn’t hesitate to help. “Mrs. Mason’s initial commitment was involuntary,” he explains. “The circumstances were a matter of police record, so I can certainly share them.”

“As I’m sure you can appreciate, Dr. Friedman, we’re racing against the clock here. I’m hoping you can save us some time and offer some additional insight. We believe Cooper Anderson was alive less than an hour ago. We also have reason to believe Stephanie Mason sedated him with a drug called etorphine. We found two prescriptions from you, one for fluoxetine, another for olanzapine. Did you also prescribe the etorphine,” I ask.

“Etorphine? No. That’s a semi-synthetic opioid. Extremely strong. A thousand times stronger than morphine. No one would give her a prescription for that. Plus, it’s highly regulated. If they let her return to work, she might have gotten access to it there.”

Zack’s trusty notebook is between us on the seat. He hands it to me without taking his eyes from the road. “I wrote the place she worked down. Charleston Landing. What is it?”

Friedman rustles a few papers. “Charles Town Landing. It’s a local state park. She worked in the animal forest there as a vet. It’s essentially a twenty-two-acre zoo. They have some pretty large animals. Bears, pumas, bison.”

“You said if they let her return to work. Was there an incident of some kind?” I ask.

“The one that resulted in her commitment. A mother who was visiting the park with her son turned her back on his stroller long enough to order a couple ice cream cones. By the time she looked back, Mrs. Mason was fifty yards away with the kid. An altercation ensued, security and the police were called. Both women were claiming the child was theirs, but the staff at Charles Town Landing were familiar with the Mason’s situation. They knew of their loss,” explains Friedman. “Once they informed the mother of the toddler, and the police assured her Mrs. Mason would be held for observation, the woman declined to press charges.”

Zack has been listening intently. As soon as the doctor pauses, he’s ready with a question. “Did Mrs. Mason actually believe this child was hers?”

“Severe depression can result in psychosis. She’d suffered a tragic loss, a loss for which she blamed herself. She was delusional. She believed her son’s soul was unable to pass on. That it found a home in the toddler she came across at the zoo. That the boy
became
her son. The police brought her to the ER at Medical University of South Carolina. That’s where she was when I assessed her. There were no beds at the Institute. No beds anywhere. Excuse me for a moment.” There’s a murmur of indistinct voices in the background. After a minute he returns. “I’m sorry. My next patient is here. There’s really not much more to tell. According to the husband she hadn’t been sleeping, hadn’t been eating. We sedated her. Medicated her. Hydrated her. His presence had a calming and stabilizing effect. She slept. Within thirty-six hours she was cleared. I sent her home with prescriptions and a month of refills to tide her over until she could get in for outpatient treatment somewhere.”

I have a million questions but realize that right now he likely only has the time and patience for one more. “Dr. Friedman, Mr. Mason seems to be the one abducting these boys, not Mrs. Mason. It appears they’ve taken three children since you last saw them. Two were killed. Murdered. We’re trying to understand. Do you think he’s taking the boys as a substitute for the son he lost? And if so, why is he killing them?”

“Have you ever heard of Folie à deux, Agent Monroe?”

My French is a little rusty. “Madness of two?”

“A shared psychotic disorder. A delusional belief shared by two, sometimes more people. Often one is the primary or inducer. After a period of exposure to and isolation with the inducer, the secondary or accepter will often begin to reinforce the delusion and become deluded his or herself. I’m just speculating, of course. I spent only a few hours with Mrs. Mason. Far less with her husband.”

Again, I hear a voice in the background. This time their need for the doctor’s attention appears even more urgent. I realize this is all we’re going to get. I thank the doctor and disconnect.

“My money is on the wife as the killer,” Zack says. “She’s looking for her son. Stuart brings home a boy that fits the bill in terms of age and overall appearance. They share in the delusion that they’ve found him—his soul incarnate.”

I pick up the thread. “But the boys don’t play along. They don’t meet her expectations and challenge the delusion. Eventually it becomes too much. She’s drowning them, recreating the circumstances of her son’s death over and over. The Masons aren’t in this for money. Truth be told, they probably don’t even mean any harm. These aren’t our typical suspects. They’re…”

“Off the rails?”

I nod, contemplating the implications. “Which is what makes them dangerous. We should consult with NCAVC before we interview Mason.”

A branch of the FBI’s operational support division, the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime can likely give us an idea what to expect when we find Mrs. Mason. They’re the behavioral analysts.

“Agreed.” Zack finds our exit and pulls off the highway.

There’s a helicopter circling overhead. In front of us, there’s a police line. News vans are lining both sides of the one-way street. We slow down. Zack rolls down the window on the driver’s side and holds out his badge to the officer manning the barricade. He moves it and waves us through. From the looks of things, every cop in Charleston must be here. We make our way over to the abandoned postal truck and park nearby. I get out first. By the time I come around the car, Zack’s pulled the evidence back containing Mason’s T-shirt from the back seat.

“I’m hoping they have a K-9 unit here,” he says, opening the bag and inhaling deeply. “This must have been one of Mason’s workout shirts. There’s plenty of scent. Should help with tracking if there wasn’t enough in the truck for them to go on.”

He says it like sticking his nose in an evidence bag is the most natural thing in the world.

To a Were, it is. I keep my expression neutral.

Zack closes the bag back up. “Do you mind paying respects and making nice to the powers that be? I want to call NCAVC and maybe find one of the K-9 handlers. See if their hounds can make use of this.”

“Sure. “

Only I know Zack doesn’t really need to enlist the help of a bloodhound, not when he has his very own wolf.

The sun has set. It’s been an hour since I’ve seen or heard from Zack. Checking in with the local command took no time at all. Sometimes it’s easy to work with local law enforcement. Sometimes you have to work around them. After being called sweet cheeks, sugar, and honey in the space of ten minutes I knew the situation was going to call for the latter.

While waiting for word from Zack, NCAVC called. Apparently he’d given them my number when he left a message, not his. And he didn’t respond to my attempt to conference him in. The call with the team lasted a full thirty minutes.

The upshot?

Don’t challenge the Masons’ delusion. Find out what alternative construct they’ve developed to replace reality and don’t threaten it. The consensus seemed to be that considering how enmeshed the couple likely is, Mason will know where is wife went. All we need to do now is find him and get him to talk.

I dial Zack again, still no answer. It rolls right into voicemail. The idea that he might have transformed into his wolf to track Mason occurs to me for the first time. Although it’s not common, some of the more powerful Weres can change at will. It would explain why he hasn’t answered. Maybe his clothes and cell are tucked safely away somewhere. Suddenly I’m imagining Zack, naked, bathed by the light of the waning gibbous. I gaze up at the moon.

Focus, Emma.

My phone rings. “Where the hell are you? I called twice.”

He doesn’t bother to apologize. “I think I’m close. Come join me on foot.” His voice is soft and low.

“Back-up?” I ask, matching his tone.

“Just you. I don’t want to spook him. More importantly, I want to make sure we take him in alive. He’s the key to us finding Cooper. Head west on Sans Souci then south on Piedmont for three blocks. There’s a line of trees between numbers three and one. Meet me there.” The line goes dead. I don’t bother to call him back. My bet is that he’s turned his damn phone back off.

I follow his directions, sticking to the shadows and maintaining a steady pace. I don’t want to appear hurried and I don’t want to linger. The FBI raid coat I changed into announces who I am to any cop or resident that might be tempted to stop me and ask. In addition, I keep my phone to my ear to discourage disruption. I take a right on Piedmont, just like Zack asked. There’s quite a bit of space between the houses. Long driveways and expansive lawns front the homes. It’s dark enough I can’t get a sense for the backyards. I move more quickly now, skirting the light cast from the occasional window or porch. After traversing the first two blocks I slow down, moving even more cautiously, quietly. I ease into the outcropping of trees on the south side of number three Piedmont.