Noah's Rainy Day (44 page)

Streeter said in disgust, “Put him in the car.”

Agent Knapp and Gregory escorted Fletcher to the caged backseat of a squad car parked next to their Bureau-issued Crown Victoria.

As Agent Gregory was about to close the door, I heard the slug call my name, after picking it up from the agents who had coaxed me out of killing Fletcher with my bare hands. I walked over to the open door, looming above him as he slouched against the vinyl seats.

He licked his lips. “I’ll be thinking about you tonight. What you must have looked like when you were Noah’s age. Nine? Ten years old?”

I kicked the car door shut in his face and mumbled, “Freak.”

Streeter grabbed my arm, pulling me away from the car.

To Knapp and Gregory, Streeter barked, “Tell the officer to get him out of here.” To Mills and Kelleher, Streeter ordered, “Bring the crime tech team in. Kelleher, you’re point man. Focus on the spare bedroom with the toys upstairs. The boy must have stayed in that room. Dust it for prints. Tear the station wagon apart, too. The boys’ prints will be there. Make sure everything is by the book on this one, because we’re going to need it. Finish the bag and tag, box everything up and take it back to headquarters. I don’t care how long it takes. Once you finish up, check in with me at the office because I may need you to help with the search. Looks like we’re in for a very long night.”

Streeter’s cell phone let out a piercing shrill. He checked the number and said, “It’s Linwood.”

“While you talk to Jack, I need to tell Frances and Gabriel what’s happening. I’ll be right back.”

I didn’t know the woman with my sister. She was a psychologist, recommended by Tony, who specialized in dealing with victims and the bereaved. My sister was a mess, but I didn’t have time to deal with that at the moment. I told her what had happened and that we had Fletcher, but that I needed to go find Noah. I collected Beulah and her gear and threw everything in the back of my SUV. As I was walking toward Fletcher’s house, Chief Gates was pulling in, his sweeping headlights striking something shiny in Fletcher’s driveway that caught my eye. As the chief stepped out of his car, I pulled off my gloves and reached down, plucking it from the snow. Brushing off the ice, I realized what I was holding was the football pin I’d given Noah.

“Wait!” I shouted and the rest of the agents who were gathering up equipment froze like statues. “This pin. It’s Noah’s. Queue it up. Queue it up!”

They were all staring at me, dumbfounded.

Streeter walked toward me. “Liv?”

“It’s an audio recorder. With memory. I gave it to him. He left it for me.”

The men gawked.

In a hushed tone, Gates said, “Liv, it probably just got knocked off in the struggle when Fletcher grabbed Noah from the car.”

I knew they didn’t believe me. I knew they thought I was crazy to think a child with severe cerebral palsy had the ability to stay cool and capture audio of a crime in progress. But I knew Noah. He did. He would. He made sure he left that pin for me to find.

“Queue. It. Up,” I demanded, ignoring Gates.

Streeter nodded at Jon, who fired up his laptop and removed the memory from the pin, plugging it into the port. There were muffled noises, lots of muffled noise. The agents slowly disappeared from Fletcher’s kitchen to go back to work, retrieving evidence.

“He has trouble controlling his movements. It’s on and off. He probably rolled over on the activation button a few times. Fast-forward, Jon, use the graphs to show voices.”

Streeter’s expression was one of pity. But I knew Noah. Jon did as I instructed, reluctantly. About twenty minutes into the recording the graph jumped and the screeching of fast-forwarded voices sounded from his speakers like chipmunks.

“There!” I shouted. “Listen.”

Little Max’s laugh rang out, everyone recognizing it from the press releases. More agents and officers gathered in the cold on Fletcher’s front lawn.

“It’s him,” Streeter said, his voice soft, his eyes wide. He gave a nod to Gates.

The laughter was replaced by Fletcher’s voice, scolding the boy for disobeying and warning him that if this kid—meaning Noah—had been more than a vegetable, little Max would be in trouble. The conversation ended before Noah’s wailing began. Jon was about to turn the recording off.

“No! Fast-forward. There might be more,” I insisted.

He did and the bars of the graph jumped again with a short conversation near the end of the memory. Jon Tuygen queued up the last conversation from the beginning.

“There you are,” Fletcher’s voice sounded. Noah whimpered. I bit my lip so as not to cry. The heavy breathing of Fletcher repulsed me. Noah’s weight proved too much for the pig. “Your fault, really, broken boy. Sammy
was all mine until you interfered. He won’t stop crying. Says he wants you to go with him. So you will.” Giggling from fat Fletcher like we had heard a few minutes ago. More rustling, more of Fletcher’s panting. “See how much help you are to Sammy in the woods tonight. You’ll probably end up like the others. Besides, I know it’s you, mother. Hiding inside this broken boy. Judging me. Know how I can tell? Your eyes. They gave you away.” The panting noises were of Fletcher carrying Noah and a thumping noise soft against metal, probably Noah’s blue Styrofoam chair being pushed against the car. “But I’ll be rid of you soon. Forever. I doubt you’ll be as lucky as Clint was.” Then a door opened, and Fletcher said, “Here you go, Sammy.”

Little Max’s voice sounded like a siren, the wailing, as he cried, “Oh, Papa! Thank you! Thank God you’re here, kid!”

There was the sound of fumbling, scratching, and rustling before silence and the recording ended.

“Clint! Did he say Clint?” I wondered if it could possibly be the same Clint that Noah and I had been talking about, the owner of the lost camo backpack.

Chief Gates said, “Probably in reference to the boy who was abducted last year after school just after the Thanksgiving break. He was found near Idaho Springs in the woods naked, but otherwise safe. We never did learn what happened to him. He’s still in counseling from the trauma and almost froze to death.”

The GPS location that Michael took from the encounter with the mountain lion was where I’d found the backpack.

“Tony, tell me.” I was nearly frantic. I could feel my muscles trembling. I gripped his forearms in my hands, knowing I was gripping him too tightly, and held his gaze. “Was Clint a fifth grader? Last year, maybe? At Pennington Elementary School?”

“How do you know about Clint?” Gates asked.

“I know where Fletcher took Noah!”

Noah

I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT’S
wrong with little Max. It’s like he’s been kicked in the head or something. He keeps whimpering but falling asleep, dozing off, and then wakes up screaming. He’s scared to death and so am I. I wonder if fear does that, if it makes you sleepy.

I don’t know what more I can do.

I’m starting to get really, really scared myself.

I’ve stayed brave as long as I could. It’s cold. And dark. And the smell is horrible! Worse than anything I’ve ever smelled before. Worse than any mess I ever made in my utility britches. I can hardly stand it.

And something keeps moving in the dark. I can hear scratching or nibbling or squeaking noises. I thought I could stay brave. I thought I could handle all this spy stuff. But I don’t think I want to be a spy at all. Not anymore. This is too scary. And I’m just a boy. Like little Max. I can’t help him. I’ve done everything I can.

After Mr. Creepy left us here, little Max seemed so happy that “Papa,” my neighbor, was gone, he actually talked and talked and talked. He told me all about his mom and his dad and his nanny and his friends and
playing in the park and on the slide. It made everything seem so much less scary and cold to me when he was telling me all those stories.

When I wouldn’t answer his questions, he started calling me “broken baby” and talked to me like an adult would to an infant. He layered me in all sorts of clothes from his backpack, huddled close to me to stay warm. He even tried to feed me a peanut butter sandwich, until I started choking, which made him cry. Made me cry, too. Eating is difficult for me even when someone like my mom or dad feeds me. I can hardly swallow and choke often. And peanut butter sticks in my throat. But how could this poor kid know that? He’s just a baby. Through his sobs, little Max said he didn’t know what to do, which is how I felt, and his crying made me cry. And my wailing moans scared him even more.

I feel so helpless.

Thankfully, I managed to settle down. So he settled down. But then he got really cold, said he was feeling sleepy again, like he did after Papa gave him that big old vitamin. I don’t know much about vitamins, but I’d never heard of them making kids sleepy before. I wondered what it was that Mr. Creepy made him eat. Little Max kept coming in and out of sleep, occasionally saying he felt drowsy-wowsey-woo-woo, which made me laugh. Then he’d giggle. And he’d fall asleep again. At least he fell asleep happy. But he’s been asleep a long, long time now and I can’t hear him breathing anymore.

And he hasn’t moved.

I tried to scoot my chair toward him, to nudge him, but the pain in my leg made me start crying again, and things skittered away from me in the dark. I felt something on top of the blankets, heard nibbling noises. I think they might be rats. But what if they’re mountain lions? Or bears? And they’ve come to eat us alive?

I hope little Max sleeps through all this. Because it’s so scary I can hear my heart pounding in my chest.

What if something terrible has happened to him? Like maybe he’s frozen stiff. Or a bear has already eaten half of the boy, leaving the other half leaning up against me.

I’m so scared. I hate the dark. I wish I had Auntie Liv’s luminescent flashlight she gave me last Christmas. The one that got taken away from
me because Mr. Creepy complained. I hate that man. I know I’m not supposed to hate anybody, but God, hear me now. I hate him. You can take his soul anytime and hurl it into hell.

I started crying again.

I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want all this responsibility. I want to go home.

To make things worse, I can feel the giant’s finger thrumming the inside of my ribs again. It’s already too dark here. Too cold. I’m alone. A seizure may scare little Max to death. And with no family here, no one who will know what to do, I might not fight off God taking my soul this time.

This time, I was just too weak to fight back.

I HAD CONVINCED STREETER
to ride with me, since Beulah’s kennel was in the back of my vehicle and Streeter had asked me to bring her, just in case we’d need her in the woods. I had tossed him the keys, thinking he’d drive while I sulked.

When Streeter climbed into the passenger seat at my sister’s house, asking me to drive, he surprised me. “Forget about him. He’s messing with you. It happens to a lot of people. Not just you. Now focus and drive.”

I slipped another oversized FBI-issued sweatshirt over the rag wool sweater before getting into the car and reached into the backseat for my coat, which I draped across my lap. The layers were to help me stave off the chill that Fletcher had imprinted as he tried to violate me with his eyes, taunting me with what he’d done to my poor nephew. And on top of all that, he had said he’d be thinking about me tonight—what I must have been like when I was Noah’s age—whatever that meant. I have not a clue what he was talking about, but there was no mistaking the wolfish look in his evil eyes.

The layers were not enough to ward off the chill. Never enough. I pulled my hands far inside my sleeves to cover any exposed skin.

I was glad Streeter made me drive, forced me to focus. I can count on
Streeter never to baby me; he treats me like an equal. His special way of being both compassionate yet holding me accountable empowers me.

With the steady beat of wiper blades sweeping away the large flakes that continued to fall on the windshield, I worried about the weather’s effect on the search that was just getting underway. I assumed that Tony Gates and his officers had already mapped the tire tracks and the footprints, if any, before they were completely covered by this steady snow. I hoped that by the time we arrived, the search teams would have already found the boys. Alive.

Quantico training had warned me to prepare for less.

Letting out a sigh, I focused on more practical matters. If the snow had been falling in the mountains all along, which was likely, the search would not be quick. I hoped that everyone had brought several layers of warm clothes and plenty to eat and drink. I suspected this search would last well into the night and for the entire next day. If I were honest with myself, I would admit that the search would probably last for several days. I looked in the rearview mirror, straining to see Beulah in her kennel in the backseat.

I admit I had convinced Streeter to ride with me for selfish reasons. I didn’t want to be alone. And I felt safe around him. I couldn’t call on Jack, since he was working downtown at the Bureau and was told to meet the other officers who took Fletcher to the holding cell for interrogation. Plus, I knew Streeter hadn’t had a nap going on two long days. So I was glad he’d asked me to drive. He could take a catnap on the way up to the campground. I’d stolen a nap earlier that day after my search of the airport parking lot and now it was his turn.

He had fallen asleep almost immediately. I was enjoying watching him sleep, his face serene and chiseled. Awake, every taut muscle of Streeter’s face was lined with the maps of his history; his slightest movements were more expressive than in any other man I’d known.

We were almost there when his phone rang.

Streeter’s head snapped up and I could see him trying to work through the confusion that fogged his sleep-deprived brain.

“Your phone. We’re almost there.”

His fished for his cell in his pocket and answered, “Yes.”

“This is Blake Riley with security.”

I could already hear the voice on the phone in the stillness of the nighttime drive, but Streeter hit the speakerphone button anyway.