Paying The Piper (8 page)

“O
regon? There
is something seriously wrong here,” Sheils announced.

After calming down the Fleetwoods and Rooker, he’d brought his key team back to the division office and called in Travillian to regroup. The Piper had thrown everything into confusion. Brannon, Dunham, Guerra, and Travillian sat around the windowless confines of the situation room.

“Maybe the Piper is trying something new,” Brannon suggested, “and he’s taking the runaround to the next stage. This might be the beginning of a state-hopping tour.”

“What would be the purpose?” Travillian asked.

“It stretches our resources. As soon as we’ve got a team on the ground, he’s got us on the move again,” Brannon said.

It was a nice theory, but Sheils didn’t buy it. “It stretches his resources more than it does ours. Also, he’s upping the risk by shunting this kid from state to state.”

“That’s if the kid isn’t already in his final location,” Travillian said. “He may lead us from Oregon to Idaho to Utah when the kid’s been in California all along.”

Sheils hadn’t brought in Travillian just because he was the boss. Sammy Fleetwood’s kidnapping was gathering momentum in the media. They were already taking heat from Washington, and there was only so much
time they’d get before results were demanded, not just expected. Travillian had great instincts.

Dunham tapped a printout. “The rough triangulations we’ve gotten on his Wi-Fi connection so far have put him in the East Bay, San Jose, and the city.”

“Which illustrates my point. He’s making us run while he stays still. He’s conserving his resources and energy while expending ours.”

Fatigue pressed down on Sheils’s shoulders like a lead weight. He was losing the Piper again. Everyone considered him the foremost expert on the Piper, but he’d only gained that dubious title by failing to catch the son of a bitch. He went to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup to inject some life into his body.

Sheils retook his seat to silence. There was another scenario, but no one wanted to be the first to mention it. He had to address the elephant in the room.

“Sammy Fleetwood was taken thirty-six hours ago. We all know what that means. The recovery rate after twenty-four hours dwindles. So we’re looking at the possibility that he’s dead.”

“The Piper doesn’t kill if you play ball with him,” Brannon said.

“But this isn’t a normal Piper kidnapping,” Sheils said. “The Piper wants to hurt Scott. What better way than to put him through some epic goose chase, then deliver his kid to him dead?”

“That’s one hell of a fuck-you,” Travillian said.

“Why the eight-year gap?” Dunham pressed. “I mean, the Piper could have spent a year planning this snatch, but an eight-year gap has to be significant.”

The answer jumped out at Sheils. It surprised him that he hadn’t thought of it earlier. “Yes and no. The gap is significant, but the meaning might not be. The Piper might have been in prison serving a sentence for something totally unrelated. I want a check on known and suspected kidnappers who’ve been paroled in the last twelve months after serving six to eight.”

“I’ll get on it,” Dunham said.

“What about Scott Fleetwood?” Travillian asked. “He played on the wrong side of the street with Redfern. Any
belief he’ll do it again and work with the Piper?”

Sheils knew Travillian had aimed this question at him, but he kept quiet. He wanted to hear what everyone else had to say before he responded.

“I don’t think he’s working with the Piper,” Brannon said. “I don’t see what he has to gain.”

“I don’t even see how,” Dunham said. “The guy hasn’t been out of our sight.”

“He’d have to be pretty dumb to contact the Piper now, but that’s not to say the guy hadn’t preplanned this,” Travillian said.

Sheils wondered if Travillian had said this for his benefit. Everyone knew how he felt about Scott. The hypothesis bore more validity coming from someone with more objectivity.

Guerra stopped doodling in the margins of a legal pad. “My read on the guy is that he’s genuinely frightened by what’s going on. I think he gives off a cagey air, but that’s because of his past association with the Piper. The guy is embarrassed. His family is on the rocks because of his bad instincts, and who comes to his rescue? Rooker, the person he screwed over the most. The guy’s in turmoil.”

“Your thoughts, Tom?” Travillian said.

Sheils had thoughts, but doubts too. About Scott. About himself. He was trying to give Scott the benefit of the doubt, but he was struggling with his feelings. He wanted Scott to pay for the past, and he would love to find a link between him and the Piper, but that line of thinking would get him in to trouble. He’d already blown it once, compounding his unprofessionalism by losing it in front of his team and Scott’s family. He could pretend there wasn’t anything to it, but he was twisting the blade for cheap thrills. Was this the behavior of a senior bureau agent? No. The smart thing to do was to remove himself from the investigation, but he couldn’t. He wanted the Piper. If he dragged Scott
down in the process, so be it.

“I don’t like the man, but I don’t think he’s deceiving us,” he said and left it at that.

Travillian smiled, pleased with the response. Then he capped his pen and folded his case file. “I think we’re playing this one by the book. I have no complaints. The Piper is a first-class sadist who’s putting the Fleetwoods through hell. We just have to make sure he doesn’t do the same to us. There’s obviously a new wrinkle in the plan, but what I’m hearing is that we have a lot of theories and no clear lead as to his identity.”

Travillian paused. No one disputed his claim.

“Okay, then. Let’s wake up some people in Portland. It sounds like you’re off to Oregon.”

Sheils’s predawn departure didn’t faze Scott. He’d barely slept and was glad for the excuse to get up. From the looks of Sheils, he hadn’t gotten much sleep, either, but his casual dress of a polo shirt and chinos softened his usually officious FBI persona.

“Ready?” Sheils asked.

Scott hefted his overnight bag to show that he was. He hoped this trip didn’t warrant an overnight stay.

Sheils led him out to a convoy of three unmarked bureau vehicles. Brannon, Dunn, and half a dozen other FBI agents Scott recognized made up the traveling team. Guerra was the notable absentee. She remained at the house to keep watch over Jane and Peter.

Jane came out after him, with Peter in tow. Scott hugged him before embracing her. Usually, public displays of affection embarrassed her, but not this time. She clung to him like they were stranded on a cliff ledge. He kissed her, and she made it linger.

“Bring Sammy home.” It wasn’t a plea but a demand, born from fear and need.

“I will.” He knelt before Peter. “Think about something neat we can do for Sammy when he comes home.”

“Sure, Dad.”

“We need to hit the road,” Sheils said.

Sheils put Scott in his car, the two million the only
other passenger. Obviously, Sheils wanted some alone time with him during the drive. Scott braced himself for a long ride, but as they drove, Sheils kept it civil and coached him on the ransom drop. Just when Scott was beginning to relax, Sheils brought out the thumbscrews.

“Why do you think the Piper’s bringing us up here?”

“I don’t know,” Scott replied, his lie sounding convincing.

“It doesn’t make any sense to move the switch to Oregon.”

“I don’t know what he’s thinking.”

“Sure you don’t?”

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not involved?” The lie tasted bitter on Scott’s tongue.

Sheils didn’t answer and let the point fester for the rest of the journey.

Scott ran the Piper’s demand over and over in his head, trying to make sense of it. He expected him to find, abduct, and deliver Redfern to him, all under the nose of the FBI. How the hell was he going to do that? Sheils wasn’t going to let him out of his sight for a second. Even if he were to give the Feds the slip, he didn’t have a vehicle to go after Redfern. The Piper was leading the FBI to Eugene, but Redfern lived an hour away from there by car. Scott didn’t stand a chance.

The motorcade stopped for gas outside Redding. Scott hadn’t realized how stiff he’d gotten until he had to walk. The air carried a chill, and Mount Shasta dominated the skyline. Sheils and his agents clustered around the gas pumps to talk. Scott caught the “Feds-only” vibe and made for the restrooms.
He locked himself into the bathroom and called the Piper.

“Where are you?” the Piper asked.

“Redding. Look, there’s no way I can ditch the Feds.”

“Do they suspect you?”

“No, but I don’t go anywhere unescorted.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of them.”

“How?”

“Always the reporter, Scott,” the Piper lamented. “It’s all what, where, when, why, who, and how. None of that applies here. You’re in the realm of faith now.”

“With you as God?”

The Piper chuckled. “Now you’re learning. For now, play along with everything the FBI tells you.”

“But how am I supposed to lose them?”

“You’ll see.”

Those words preyed on Scott and carried him all the way to Eugene.

The FBI Portland Division was playing host with the support of the Eugene resident agency and had set themselves up in a hotel room. After introductions, there wasn’t a lot to do other than wait. The hours of inactivity wore Scott’s nerves raw. The Feds burst into action when the Piper called at eight p.m. They were a machine. Scott couldn’t see how the Piper was going to lure them away.

“Anytime you’re ready, Scott,” Brannon said.

Scott took his cell phone from the agent. Sheils listened in on a separate phone.

“Scott, I want you to drive out to South Twenty-Eighth Street in Springfield and stop when you reach a bridge,” the Piper said.

“Where’s that?”

“Ask Sheils. I’m sure he’s got a map. You’ve got twenty minutes. If you’re not there, I start hurting Sammy.”

“No, don’t. I’m on my way.” But Scott was talking to a dead line.

Play along, the Piper had told him. Obviously, now
was the time.

“All right,” Sheils said. “This is it. Everyone knows their role. Now let’s catch this bastard.”

The agents pounced on phones, hurling calls out to a covert operations team holed up at a separate location. Conversations went on with the phone company, the local and state cops, and the pilots they had in the air. Sheils had this thing covered. There was no way in hell Scott was giving them the slip. The Piper had screwed up this time. He was getting too cute for his own good. Hands pressed into Scott’s back, ushering him out of the hotel room and down a corridor.

Brannon flung open the door to the hotel’s underground parking lot. One of the Portland agents clambered behind the wheel of a brand-new white Toyota Camry. He popped the trunk and hopped from the car, leaving all the doors open.

Sheils put the duffel with the two million on the front passenger seat. “The trackers are activated. You’re good to go.”

Sheils introduced Jim Taggart. “He’ll be with you every step of the way, Scott.”

Taggart was a Portland-based FBI agent who looked to be in his midthirties and athletically built. He was clad in a blue-black jumpsuit with a heavy Kevlar vest, the letters
FBI
emblazoned across the front and back in gold letters. A fearsome automatic pistol hung off his belt. He climbed into the Toyota’s trunk and squeezed himself into its tight confines.

Scott had objected to having an agent ride with him, but Sheils overruled him. Now Scott feared for Taggart. The Piper would surely put a bullet in the agent when he found him, and Scott didn’t want another victim on his conscience.

“I’ve got your back, Scott,” Taggart said before an agent slammed the trunk lid down.

“Right, Scott,” Sheils said. “This is where the wild goose chase
begins. He’s going to bounce you all over town. Don’t worry about it. Just follow his directions. The car has a tracker on it. Our teams will be close behind. Okay?”

Scott nodded and got behind the wheel. He’d lost the feeling in his fingers and toes, despite wearing gloves and thick gym socks.