The Fourth Victim (10 page)

The discrepancy was big.

Clay stood, looking down at the pages strewn across his desk.

Was he stretching the evidence too thin? So desperate to find a woman he didn't even know that he was inventing clues to make up for the legitimate ones they didn't have?

Or…

Wide-awake now, flooded with energy, Clay dropped back into his chair and sat forward.

Suppose there'd been
two
carts.

Two city workers. Dressed the same, maybe. With hats…

Fingers almost fumbling in his haste, he glanced through descriptions of the city worker—the man had worn a beige
insulated jumpsuit, regulation city uniform for outdoor winter work, with glow-in-the-dark caution stripes down the sleeves, and a city-issue beige baseball cap. Some had said he had dark brown hair. Some hadn't noticed.

Flipping to Barry's notes he read that the man had dark brown hair.

But it hadn't shown enough to be noticed by everyone.

The bike trail was on the city worker's regular beat. He was the only one who serviced it—keeping debris off the path, moving fallen branches, sweeping, cleaning and mowing the sides.

A man of average size and weight, in a bulky insulated jumpsuit and black work boots, could be easily impersonated.

There'd been two carts.

Both with tarps over the backs of their carts. One with a branch on top.

And one with a captive woman beneath it?

The dogs had found Kelly Chapman's scent on the trail and then lost it. She'd been on the trail and then she hadn't been—with no way for her to have gotten off, unless she turned around. But if she'd turned around, wouldn't one of the witnesses who'd seen the city worker have seen her?

And if she
hadn't
turned around, she'd vanished into thin air. Or been dumped in a cart right there on the trail. Because when the cart drove away, her scent would have, too.

H
e wasn't coming. He hadn't thought it was safe or he would've been there.

Disappointed, not in Mac because she knew that if he'd been able to get to her without putting her in danger, he would have done so, but because she didn't know when she'd have another chance this perfect to see him, Maggie finally stood and gazed out at the darkness that had fallen around her.

Mac would find a way to get to her. He'd signal her somehow. She'd left the flower for him, as he'd told her to. He'd seen it and turned it around. Now she had to be grown-up about it and just wait.

She wasn't afraid. Wasn't going to be afraid. She'd faced a sheriff's deputy intent on raping her. She could handle waiting for Mac. And she could handle a trek through some dark woods alone at night.

Like, who would be way out there, anyway?

But she wasn't going to tell Mac about being alone in the dark. He'd be angry with her for not keeping herself safe. And frustrated because he couldn't just be there and take care of her without all this running around and hiding. He might even forbid her from visiting their spot again.

She couldn't bear that.

He'd do it, though, if he believed that being there put her in any danger. Mac always thought of her first.

Because that's what good men did for their women.

He'd been there, just as she'd known he would. He'd turned the rose she'd left for him.

Maggie turned it back the way she'd originally placed it.
I love you,
that small movement said.

“I love you.” Maggie spoke aloud, her voice far too loud in the blackness. She started to shake—only because she was cold, she told herself.

But really, what kind of animals were there? Animals that kept themselves hidden by day but roamed freely at night?

Animals that were rabid or hungry. Like a fox.

They had foxes in Ohio.

Something rustled in the distance and that was when Maggie realized just how much of a chance she'd taken, staying so long. The rustling was followed by a high-pitched eerie sound. Some kind of animal. A coyote?

She'd been stupid. She couldn't afford to be stupid. She'd look like a
kid
if she was stupid.

Retrieving the cell phone Kelly had gotten for her, she held it with her ungloved hand just above the 9-1-1 speed-dial button as she walked slowly through the brush and the barren limbs. And as soon as she was far enough away from her sacred place, she moved her thumb to the most recently added speed-dial number and pushed.

“
Maggie?
Where are you? We've been frantic. Absolutely frantic…”

Guilt surged through her as Maggie heard Samantha's tension. “I'm…I just wanted to take a bike ride, like I used to when things got bad with my mom. I couldn't stay in that house all alone and I didn't know how long you guys'd be at the hospital, but I didn't want to get too far out of town
so I stopped near these woods and walked, but I hid my bike so no one would steal it and so some creep didn't see it and follow me. And then…I got lost and I didn't have cell phone service until now and—”

“Maggie, it's okay, sweetie. Don't cry.” Samantha reminded her of Kelly right then, and Maggie cried harder. Tears that felt like they were never going to stop. Not ever.

Because Mac hadn't come for her. He couldn't come for her. And Kelly was missing and might be dead and it was probably Maggie's fault and Mom was in jail and lying to her, and Glenna was dead and she didn't have anyone she could talk to about any of this and she'd just lied to Sam and—

“Sweetie, just stay put. I'm on my way to get you.”

“You know that old red barn by the curve in the road? The one that goes to the old covered bridge that was rebuilt?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm sorta near there. In the woods.”

“Keep your phone on,” Samantha said. “It has GPS tracking that can only be handled by the police, and I'm on my way. Don't move. Don't leave the woods. I don't want you out in the open where someone can see you. There are a lot of creeps in the world.”

Maggie had kept her phone off the whole time she'd been waiting for Mac so she could say she hadn't had service. He
couldn't
call her. They'd see his number come through, and he'd be in trouble. She hadn't wanted to see someone calling and not answer, and lie about not answering. She'd already lied—and she hated lying. It made her feel dirty.

She hadn't even thought about GPS. Or the fact that Sam antha was a cop and could access the emergency system.

Another rustle in the distance had her heart pounding hard all over again. She was way too cold. And couldn't see.

“What if there's a coyote?” she asked Sam, her voice barely above a whisper so she didn't alert any nearby animals—or human—to her presence.

“He'll stay away from you as long as you don't corner him.” Sam's voice sounded strong and knowing, like a teacher, and Maggie believed her. “That's another reason I don't want you moving. I don't want you to accidentally corner anything.”

Maggie nodded. She felt dumb. And didn't want to hang up.

“How's Kyle's grandpa?”

“He's home, resting comfortably. They'll run some tests on him later, and then we'll see.”

“Is he going to be okay, though?”

“We're not sure yet, honey. He's a very old man.”

“But he's still pretty healthy.” He couldn't die. He just
couldn't.
Not now. Not like this—with Maggie using his death to skip out and see Mac. Besides, she really liked him.

Maybe even better than she liked Samantha. She knew for sure she liked him better than Kyle. But Kyle had been pretty nice to her today. If he hadn't gone and told all those lies about Mac, she'd probably like him a lot. He was a whole lot better than any man Mom had ever brought around.

And he loved his dog almost as much as Kelly and Maggie loved Camy. That was cool.

“I'll be there, in a minute or two, Mags,” Samantha said next. And Maggie started to cry again. Mom called her Mags.

“How'd you get here so fast?” Maggie asked so she wouldn't think about Mom.

“I was out looking for you.”

“Oh.” When she should've been looking for Kelly, if she wasn't with Kyle and Grandpa. “I'm sorry….”

“Shhh. It's okay, Maggie,” Samantha said. “The FBI doesn't have any more for me to do tonight and I'm the one who was in the wrong. I should never have left you at Kelly's house all alone. It was a bad idea. And I'm so sorry….”

Samantha's apology made Maggie feel about an inch high. She'd been glad she was alone at Kelly's. So she could try to see Mac.

And if Samantha knew that, she'd hate Maggie forever.

 

With a detailed longitudinal map of the bike path on the seat beside him, and a night-vision compass in his pocket, Clay drove out of Chandler at 6:30 on Saturday evening, an hour after darkness had fallen.

He always carried blankets and a survival kit in his trunk. Came from his years as a Boy Scout. His father had made sure Clay learned the meaning of the Boy Scout motto—Be Prepared.

Forge into the world, his father had said. Face challenges. Don't shy from risk. And Be Prepared.

Clay drove along the country road, the darkness penetrated only occasionally by a security light on a barn in the distance.

The temperature had dropped. It was supposed to freeze that night. And if Kelly Chapman was lying hurt somewhere out in the woods, she probably wasn't going to survive.

There'd been no word from the kidnapper after the initial ransom call. Statistically, the chances weren't good that they'd get a live exchange, anyway. Too much risk to the
kidnapper to release a victim who might know something that could lead authorities right back to him.

Tonight he was only going out to take a look around. To get a feel for the exact spot where Kelly Chapman had most likely been abducted—the spot where Willie had lost her scent.

In the morning, by the predicted 7:39 a.m. sunrise, he'd have an entire team out on that bike path.

He picked up a call from JoAnne about ten minutes from the path.

“The call came.”

“Where are you?”

“At the Evans farm. I was here when he called.”

“And?”

“He seems to know what he's doing. The voice was obviously modified. He asked if she had the money. She told him not yet and asked for more time.”

They'd discussed the plan in one of their earlier conversations.

“Could she keep him on the phone long enough to get a trace?” They'd had Kelly's line tapped.

“Nope. He told her she had until Monday morning. Otherwise, Kelly Chapman dies at noon on Monday. And he hung up. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds.”

The woman could be dead. They all knew that. At this point, it wasn't about the exchange. The more important goal was to find out who was making these calls in the hope that he'd leave a clue that would lead them directly to him.

“This guy's smart. Careful. He knew someone would be monitoring Kelly's line. Chances are he's using an untraceable phone, anyway,” JoAnne said.

“I agree. But we have to hope differently. Keep a trace on Kelly's phone. And let's put one on the Evans line,
as well.” Assuming Samantha and Kyle agreed to that and Clay was positive they would.

“What about the girl?”

“She's back with Samantha Jones. Claimed she'd gone for a bike ride to calm down and had gotten lost.”

“Which confirms that she has secrets. Which we already knew. Stay with her for a while. See if you can get anything more out of her.” Other than a brief respite to sleep, JoAnne hadn't been home in twenty-four hours. And Clay fully understood that she wouldn't have it any other way.

Her older sister had been kidnapped when JoAnne was a young teenager. Investigators had eventually turned up enough evidence to know the girl had been raped, lost a lot of blood, was presumed dead, but they'd never found her body. Or her killer.

“Will do, boss,” JoAnne said, which prompted him to admit he was heading out to the bike trail. But he said he was just going for a walk, to review evidence and put facts in order.

And he knew she knew he was lying.

Night

M
aggie was laughing. Out loud, boisterously, hilariously, joyously. I laughed, too.

But no sound came.

And then there was only darkness.

 

The lot Kelly had parked in on Friday was barely noticeable from the long country road running through the occasional burg, but mostly through acres and acres of farmland. The four paved parking spots were adjacent to a small yard and then an old house that was small for the area. It had once been white. And it was inhabited. He could see lights in the front window and a car in the yard. On the opposite side of the lot was the bike path and then another small structure that looked like it had been a one-room church or schoolhouse in another era. This building was completely surrounded, on all four sides, by grass, as though there'd never been a need to drive up to it. While it was intact, it appeared to be abandoned. There were no curtains on the two windows. No tire tracks that he could see in the darkness. No lights or vehicles or possessions lying about the place.

The kind of place someone might stash a body. If someone wasn't all that professional, Clay thought. But they were dealing with a professional.

Only someone who had very carefully planned this could have pulled it off so flawlessly. A professional would have researched. He might not have known precisely when Kelly Chapman would go skating, but if he'd been watching her at all, he knew she'd go. And that he had to be ready to make his move when she did.

He'd probably had the four-wheel utility vehicle for a while and had made practice runs to see if anyone noticed him.

He'd probably had his plans for the body laid out, as well. And timed the attack down to the second. He'd have to have done it that way in order to get Dr. Chapman off the trail unobserved.

And what better place to snatch a busy, popular woman out from under hundreds of watching eyes, away from the formidable protection of a cop who was her best friend and a loyal small town? A deserted skate path.

Part of the problem with having routines, with having habits, was that it made you predictable. It made you vulnerable to anyone who wanted to take you by surprise.

A professional would've had the cart stowed in a place where it could be retrieved on very short notice. Someone who either had an accomplice in town, telling him when Kelly was heading out to skate or was watching her himself and followed her out to the track.

According to their best estimate, Kelly Chapman had been skating for ten minutes before she disappeared. Time enough for someone to follow her from Chandler, collect the cart and meet her on the path. Someone who knew what direction she'd taken.

The legitimate city worker had known that, of course.

Clay wasn't at all convinced that the man was as innocent as he claimed.

The kidnapper had also had access to the winter uniform of a city worker. But then, that could be purchased from many uniform companies across the country.

Pulling out his cell, Clay called Greg Gilmore. Didn't matter that he was a college boy and it was Saturday night. Greg wanted a spot on Clay's team when he graduated. The kid had to prove he deserved it.

Thirty seconds later his cell phone was back in his pocket. Greg was checking on anyone anywhere in the Midwest who'd bought a uniform matching the description of the city worker's in the past six months. Many of the businesses were closed. At the office, and with JoAnne's say-so on a three-way call to request access, Greg could get emergency numbers many independent business owners left with local police departments. It was a start.

Clay got out of the car, grabbed his winter coat from the back and put it on, then picked up the compass, map and flashlight.

The path was clean. Completely dark. The moon was out, however, a welcome companion that shed a small, shadowy glow over the recently harvested cornfields. The kidnapper
had
to be a professional in order to pull off the abduction right under their noses, he thought again.

And the guy was probably keeping her right under their noses, as well. That was why no one had seen anything. She hadn't been taken anywhere. More likely there'd been a quick on-and-off the path. Clay would bet his career that the plan had been to dump her in a predetermined spot, someplace that could be reached with the cart without arousing suspicion, someplace no one would ever find her. Pull that off, destroy all the evidence and you had the perfect crime.

One for which you'd never have to pay.

Walking along, watching everything around him as he made his way to the place where Willie had lost Kelly Chapman's scent, Clay considered other aspects of the abduction.

Kelly's car had been moved.

Seemed like days since Clay had sat in that car, or felt a sense of the woman who'd driven it to Michigan and purchased luggage tags for herself and her new daughter.

He couldn't think about the woman now. He had to think like a kidnapper. A professional kidnapper.

A professional would've moved the car to an unrelated area to throw investigators off track—to have the lead investigator hightail his ass two states away, leaving the ground clear for Chapman to be dealt with. One way or another.

Walking all alone in a dark night that was so quiet the steps of his rubber soles on the pavement had the effect of gunshots, Clay tried to prepare himself for what he and his team might discover in the morning.

Even if Kelly Chapman was alive, the chances were pretty good that, after two days of captivity, she wouldn't be faring well. If she'd fought at all, she'd likely be hurt. And if she hadn't, she'd have been drugged. She could've been without food or drink for two days. Would probably be dehydrated. Depending on where she was, hypothermia was almost a certainty.

His pace quickened.

But he couldn't escape his thoughts. As uncomfortable as they were, he didn't
want
to escape them. Kelly's salvation might very well depend on the combination of logic and intuition that was Clay's strength as an investigator.

A professional would have a way to get back to the body without raising suspicion. The cart, stowed as before, would be that.

He called JoAnne. She was still at the Evans farm. She and Samantha and Kyle were sitting at the table having a late dinner that Kyle had fixed. It didn't sound as though she'd be leaving very soon. Maggie had already gone to bed, apparently. He could imagine that she wouldn't want to face any further questioning tonight.

He told JoAnne to arrange for someone to start looking for utility cart purchases. And to arrange a team to start searching for one in the morning. He hung up before she could ask any questions.

Walk first. Focus. And tip his hand only to a very few people. People he trusted with his own life.

JoAnne. And Barry.

Night

Black boot. Head pain.

Blinding head pain.

Please. No more.

Scrape and rub. Rub and scrape.

 

It took longer to reach a designated location on foot than it did on skates. Longer still if you were working with a map, a flashlight and a night compass. Clay thought about his call to JoAnne. And about their earlier conversation.

The ransom call fit his theory, too. It was being made by a professional. The disguised voice, the prevention of call tracing—anyone could've known to do that just from watching any one of the many crime shows so popular on TV these days. But an amateur couldn't easily emulate the calm of someone who has the confidence of knowing what he's doing. Confidence achieved through practice. Someone who could not only afford to be patient, but was absolutely convinced that he was safe. Someone who hadn't kidnapped Kelly Chapman for ransom, but who'd made
ransom demands to throw the authorities off track, to divert them from the real crime. The real motive for the crime. The kidnapper had bought himself forty-eight hours, and now an extra twenty-four, to do whatever he was doing and then get out. Twenty-four more hours before Clay and his team knew that the ransom call was a fake.

An extra twenty-four hours to kill the woman and get the hell out of Dodge. Cover his tracks.

Or maybe just another twenty-four hours to let the trail go cold.

Night

Cold. Too cold. Death cold.

 

Clay stopped. Stood on the six-foot-wide black asphalt bike path and felt the cold penetrate him. He'd brought gloves in his pocket, but had left them off to more easily maneuver the map, flashlight and compass he'd been using.

He'd reached the spot where Willie had lost Kelly Chapman's scent and he closed his eyes.

Closed out the darkness around him.

She'd been skating north away from the parking lot. He faced north. The utility cart—minus the branch—had been reported traveling north, having just crossed a street. Clay had crossed a street not one hundred yards back.

The second utility cart, seen at approximately the same time, but with a branch in the back, had been just ahead of where Clay stood now. So the legitimate city worker had seen Kelly and traveled on his way. She'd skated behind him at a pretty good clip. He'd stopped to pick up a branch, and possibly clear other debris.

The second cart had come up behind Kelly. Perhaps the guy called out to her. Recognizing the city vehicle,
the uniform, she would've waited. At which point the guy grabs her, restrains her and dumps her in the back of his cart. Probably knocking her out because he couldn't let her slow him down or make noise or move around when he had her in his cart. This all had to happen within two or three minutes.

Then he'd be driving off, passing the place where that branch had been at approximately 10:15 when the second woman saw the city worker.

It was a stretch. Comprising suppositions and maybes. There wasn't enough substantive evidence to take home to his cat. But the theory made sense. It was the only thing that made sense.

Standing there, imagining Kelly Chapman being abducted, possibly injured, right there where he stood, Clay was filled with a sense of foreboding. That morning he'd been in the driver's seat of the woman's car. Sitting where she'd sat yesterday morning.

Tonight he stood where she was last known to be alive.

He was getting close.

She was nearby. Dead or alive, she was nearby.

Opening his eyes, he spun around. Had he heard something?

A deer in the cornfield, maybe.

In the darkness, the quiet was penetrating. And animals roamed.

Maybe it was a raccoon. A possum.

Certainly not a woman calling out to him.

He was hearing clues in the wind now.

But if Kelly Chapman
was
close by—alive—he had to find her. Tonight.

Before her captor had any indication that someone was on to him. Clay's people were asking questions about city uniforms and city vehicles. If the kidnapper had an
informant, which was a high possibility given some of the suspects, he'd know soon enough that Clay was on to him. If he didn't know already…

Clay couldn't leave her out here alone. Couldn't let the bastard come back and get her in the morning. Move her. Finish the job.

A city worker wouldn't be on the trail at night. And a professional criminal wouldn't blow his cover by being out here, either. But in the morning…

Clay had a niggling thought about the fact that he was exhausted. He wasn't up to par tonight. He was well aware of it.

The way he couldn't get the woman out of his mind was proof of that. The way he kept feeling some kind of connection to her. He was overtired. Not thinking clearly.

He wasn't leaving. Not until he found her. And if that meant he spent the night out here on a cold deserted track, guarding a hideaway he didn't even know for sure existed, then so be it.

He expected Kelly Chapman to survive the cold. She
had
to.

And he could, too.