Face Off (21 page)

“A child? That's strange. We have had no evidence that Clark went after anyone but young women.”

Suzanne jumped on the detective's statement. “I thought you said Clark was no longer a suspect.”

“He isn't!” Harry spoke more vehemently than he intended. “At least not officially. Actually, not even unofficially, truth be known. My team that worked this investigation are about the only ones who think he could still be the butcher. And of course you told me yesterday you
knew
Clark had committed those murders, and your background checks out pretty impressive.”

Suzanne couldn't have been more surprised if Harry had admitted to being the butcher himself. “You mean you actually believed me?”

“Well.” Harry. backpedaled. “I think I believed
you
believed it.”

“Why have you been so mean, then?” Jessie demanded, with the bluntness of a teenager.

“Because you keep jumping into the middle of my investigation and placing yourselves in danger! Like last night. You had no business going out to that carnival all alone.
You
might have been killed, as well as the old man. If you are right, and Clark
is
the killer, then you have to remember that he knows Suzanne's face. You both have got to be more careful!”

“How much of what we have told you is accurate?” Suzanne asked.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck in frustration, hearing little cracking sounds as his hand kneaded out the soreness. He looked at the woman and the girl who had disrupted his life for two days. “All right. Maybe you need to know.

“Jessie”—he turned to the girl—“we have found traces of chloroform on the faces of a few of the girls. That could sure be what you were experiencing when you ‘relived' your sister's abduction. But we have no knowledge of a van. Clark drives a 1996 Ford Taurus. However, we do have a report of one witness who swears she saw a maroon van hanging around a different church where one girl was abducted. And the details in the murder you saw are consistent with the evidence.” He glanced at Jessie, unsure if he should continue.

“I need to know everything,” Jessie answered his unspoken question. “Something you tell me might be the thing that lets me find Amy.”

Harry nodded. “Okay. Each of the girls had small patches of semen smeared on their bodies. Semen from five or six different men. The psychologist told us the killer picked clean-cut, pure-looking girls, then made them up to look like whores. I suspect what you saw him doing was removing semen from those bottles. By smearing semen from several different men, he was branding them in some sick way—showing the world they were not what they seemed.”

“A deep hatred of his mother, right?” Suzanne asked.

Harry shrugged. “No, actually if the killer is Clark, it was his father who abused him, not his mother—or at least that we know about. But you're right. Our psychologist said the killer's hatred of women probably stemmed from a hatred of his mother. That has been one area that has puzzled us.”

“Maybe he hated his mother for not protecting him,” Suzanne suggested. “That sometimes happens.”

“Maybe. I don't know.”

“So
can
we try doing a reading from Clark's cell?” Suzanne changed the subject. “You can stay right with us if you wish. It won't bother us.”

“Okay, ladies, let's do it.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Of all the manners in which Amy had visualized meeting her death over the last twelve days, she had to admit that drowning was not one of them, not even when she had clocked the rising of the water and saw it was climbing at an alarming rate of an inch every five or six minutes. After all, how much could it rain, she had reasoned. But now she was standing in water almost to her hips, and it seemed to be pouring in from everywhere. The opening for the electrical cord had water coming out of it at a steady rate; there was water dripping from several places across the wooden ceiling; and the crack in the cement had widened.

Amy held tight to the lamp, holding it and the cord up out of the water. She knew she should shut off the light, but could not make herself do it. Better to go in one blinding flash of electrical shock, than die a thousand deaths in a dark, watery grave.

She pictured her mother, father, and Jessie at home on the farm, perhaps huddled together on the couch, or pacing back and forth, waiting for news of her. They would be near panic by now. Tears burned at Amy's eyes as she clamped a trembling hand over her mouth and listened to the silence of her tomb.

*   *   *

Suzanne and Jessie stood facing each other, their hands locked. The older psychic could feel the tension in the younger one. “Relax, Jessie,” she said softly. “Clear your mind.” To Harry she tried to explain. “Sometimes with a psychic it's like sitting in a room listening to three or four televisions, a stereo, and a radio or two. Everything just comes at you at once so that you understand nothing. The information is coming from too many sources. What you have to do is learn to concentrate on only one of the voices. Then you can understand what is trying to get through.”

“It doesn't bother you that I am here or that you are talking to me?”

“No. If it is going to come, it will come. If it does, and you want to ask us anything, go ahead.”

As if on cue, Jessie's head tilted to the left and her eyes closed tight. She could see Randal Clark sitting on the chair by the small table in the cell.

Suzanne saw him also but did not feel the enormous fear she had felt when she had touched him.

Many images began bombarding Jessie's mind. Bodies, and knives, and blood. Razors, bottles, and sunflowers. All going around and around in her head.

“Pick one, Jessie,” Suzanne said. “Concentrate on one thing. Perhaps the sunflowers. Remember that I, too, saw sunflowers. They must have some meaning.”

Jessie forced the other images from her mind. Suzanne could see them fading and the sunflowers becoming stronger. They seemed to be lining a pathway of some kind.

Suzanne began speaking in a low, hypnotic voice to Harry. “We are on a road, the same road I saw yesterday when I visited Clark here at the police station. It is a gravel path, with sunflowers thick on both sides. It seems to be a hill. We are going up the path of a hill, but—oh, God—there is blood washing down the road. We can't stand up. It is all over us!” The image began fading. Suzanne pressed Jessie's hand. “No, sweetie. This time we must go on. Stand up. Get out of the blood. Look around for another marker. Try to see the name of a nearby road, anything!”

Jessie's head tilted back. “The blood is all over me! Oh, please! Don't let it be Amy's blood!”

“Look, Jessie.”

“I can't!”

“You can. You can do this.”

“No! No! I can't! The blood is almost up to my knees!”

“Jessie, open your eyes and look at the hill. Look for something that will tell us where to go.”

Jessie's head began going from side to side as if she were looking. “There's a fence. It has little—it's an electric fence. Like we have at home. Wait. Wait! There's a board nailed to one of the posts. The printing is faded, but I can almost read it … uh … Let Freedom Ring! That's what it says. Let Freedom Ring.”

So much of her energy had been consumed in finding a marker that Jessie's knees gave out and she would have sunk to the floor had Harry not caught her. He set her down on the cell bed.

“Does the sign mean anything to you, Detective?” Suzanne asked.

“Harry,” Harry answered. “You can't seem to decide what to call me so how about just plain Harry, and no, I'm afraid the sign means nothing to me.” If there had been any doubt about the young girl's talent, it was dispelled with the scene he had just witnessed. A scene that had slightly unnerved him.

“At least I didn't see Amy on the floor with a knife sticking out of her, like earlier,” Jessie said. “I guess that's something.”

Suzanne sat down on the small bed next to Jessie, gathering her close. “Sweetie, it's like I told you. I think you were into Clark's mind again, that's all. You were picking up what he was
hoping
to do, or
imagining
doing. Remember, in that vision he had the two of us, and we know for sure he doesn't have
us,
right?”

They all looked up as Jim Stahl entered the cell. “Harry, Connors wants to see you. He was able to dig up some background on Clark that he thought you'd want to see.”

“Right. Would you see these two ladies back to their car?” Harry walked over, touching Suzanne on the arm. “Would you mind if I came by later to see how you both are doing? And promise me you won't strike out after Clark on your own.”

Jessie answered before Suzanne had a chance. “We aren't promising anything. We have to find Amy tonight.”

“Just let us know what you are doing, darlin'.” Jim smiled. “We're here to help you, not keep you from finding your sister.”

Suzanne's eyes had not left Harry's face. It was a strong face, full of warmth and compassion. It was also an incredibly handsome face, in a rugged man's man sort of way. Thick, long lashes framed cerulean eyes which were alive with energy.

“Oh, by the way,” Harry said. “You wouldn't happen to remember your birth parents' name, would you? We've run into a little snag on your background.”

Suzanne tore her eyes from Harry's face as she gave a small gasp. “My background? Why are you still worried about my background?” Harry's smile seemed circumspect to Suzanne now.

“It's probably nothing, but we ran a check on your father, Carl Webb, and the birth certificate that was used to get a Social Security number belonged to a boy in Oklahoma who died when he was eleven.”

“That's impossible. I have my father's death certificate at home. He died in Omaha by his own hand.”

“Yes,” Harry answered. “We aren't questioning that he died, but we think he was using an alias when he killed himself.”

“Why? Why would he do that?”

Harry shrugged, realizing for the first time that Suzanne was starting to get agitated by his questions. “I'm sorry. I … we…”—he looked to Jim for support—“thought you might remember another name. You would have been about five years old when he applied for that number. Do you remember ever having another name? Besides Webb?” It was only a loose end. As Harry looked at Suzanne's stricken face, he was sorry he had brought up the matter.

Unexpected tears filled Suzanne's eyes. “I don't really remember much about my childhood. Just bits and pieces. I can remember my mother being killed in a car wreck, then several years of moving from place to place with my father.” As she spoke, memories of small, dirty apartments, and food eaten directly from cans flitted across her mind. It was a horrible time for her. No wonder she had blocked it all from her memory. “But you know, maybe my father had another name he went by—like a middle name. I seem to remember my mother calling him Roy.”

“How about a city or state?” Jim asked. “Do you remember where you were living when your mother was killed?”

“No.” Suzanne shook her head. “I've often tried to remember because I've thought of trying to look up my mother's grave. It was a farm, I'm pretty sure of that, but where, I have no idea.”

“And the only name you remember is Roy?” Harry asked.

“No. I used to think my mother's name was Jean. However, Miss Emily, the lady who adopted me, tried to trace a Jean Webb for me, so I would have some idea of my background, but she never had any success. We figured I must be wrong in remembering the name.” Suzanne looked at Harry, her face trying to hide a mixture of emotions. “Why do you need to know this? Am I a suspect of some kind?”

“No, no.” Harry spoke quickly. “Don't think that. We just came up against this puzzle of your father by chance. It's just something you, for your own sake, might want to check into.”

Suzanne's eyes darted back and forth between the two detectives. She had worked for enough police departments to know things rarely happened “by chance” in their investigations. Harry McDermott had launched a full-scale background check on her. There wasn't any doubt about that.

“Hey!” Jessie interrupted. “Let's get going.”

Harry pulled his eyes from Suzanne's face. “Yes. I've got to meet one of my detectives.” At the door of the cell he turned once again to Suzanne. “I'll see you later?” He asked it as a question, but all he received in answer was a shrug, as Suzanne deliberately turned her attention to Jessie.

“Well, sweetie, at least we got something from this visit. We know there is some sort of sign saying Let Freedom Ring that is important to us.”

Jim Stahl interrupted. “What did you say? About the sign?”

Suzanne explained the hand-printed sign Jessie had seen in her vision. “Detective McDermott didn't know what it was. Have you ever heard of it?”

Jim nodded. “Yes. I think so. It sounds familiar, but I can't quite place it. Let me do some checking, and I'll see what I can find out.”

As they walked from the tiny cell, Suzanne took hold of the arm Jim held out to her. For a man of sixty-three, it was surprisingly strong. But Suzanne detected something more as she held on to the detective's arm, and it frightened her.

*   *   *

“What do you have, Gordie?” Harry asked.

“Well, I don't know. Take a look at this.” Gordon handed him several faxes of medical records. “According to what I can make out, Randal Clark sustained numerous injuries, including the one to his penis,
after
the death of his father.”

“What? That doesn't make sense. The report we received from the police in Boise said the father was responsible, and the mother had killed him defending her sons.”