The Fourth Victim (2 page)

And they'd always be related.

Chandler, Ohio
Friday, December 3, 2010

T
he first Friday in December was an unusually warm—for Ohio—forty degrees. That's still cold, though, and I was outside in-line skating. Was I nuts? Judging by the absence of fellow exercisers on the trail, maybe. Except that even in the middle of summer, I was often alone out there.

What could I say? I loved to skate. Loved the sensation of flying with the wind rushing past me. Skating had always been my time to reflect. So, cold or not, I'd gone to my usual place, a section of disused railroad track that had been converted into a paved bike path that stretched eighteen miles or more through several counties.

And it was midmorning, to boot. Most people were at work. Or involved in the business of their day, so I got to be there alone. Not everyone had these random two-hour blocks of time in the early afternoons.

Besides, being out in nature, surrounded by patches of trees interspersed with cornfields, was the reason I came out. To have this time away, just me and the wind. To erase the noise of the world and listen to my thoughts.

I slowed to cross one of several country roads that broke
up the path. Then, bending at the knees and leaning slightly forward, my weight firmly on the balls of my feet, I pushed off again, reaching a decent speed in three strides.

The long undergarments covered with sweats, the extra jacket, didn't slow me down. And I was glad for the gloves, the hat covering my ears, the scarf around my nose and mouth.

I'd be out there even if the extra garments
had
slowed me down. I had a lot on my mind. Regardless of the fact that I lived in Ohio and it was wintertime, I had to skate. It was how I coped. But sometimes life didn't take things like weather into account.

Maggie had headed out the door minus a coat that morning. I'd called her back. Handed her the new jacket we'd bought the month before. I'd driven past the bus stop a couple of minutes later.

Maggie had been there. Standing alone. Apart. But she'd had the jacket on.

I was worried sick about that girl. About my ability to mother her. And was quickly realizing something else. Where Maggie Winston was concerned, I wasn't merely acting out of compassion or my need to nurture every creature that crossed my path. I
loved
her. Felt protective of her. Felt a sense of responsibility toward her. Like she was mine. My family. My child.

Weird. Scary. Out of my comfort zone, to use a cliché that usually made me roll my eyes. I'm Kelly Chapman. The fix-it lady. (I hated being called that. I'd heard some girls in town say it.) I had three piercings in each ear, but no tattoos. And a toy poodle with a queen complex. I was on call 24/7 to anyone who needed help, mental or emotional. I made my private number public, taking calls whenever the phone rang. I was on the committee to beautify Main Street. I cooked and did dishes at the soup kitchen in town.
I read the entire selection chosen by my book club every month and never missed a meeting. I mentored psychology doctoral candidates.

And I lived alone. Always had. Since graduating from high school eons ago. Okay…I counted back…thirteen years ago.

I was unattached. But one hundred percent involved in life.

And suddenly, there I was, with a bedroom in my home that belonged to someone else. A child living with me. Someone who knew when I went to bed at night. Who knew how little I slept. Someone who needed to eat three meals a day. Someone who was hurting and when she went home, to her family, that was me. She came home to me.

The chills coursing through me had little to do with the sweat mixed with freezing wind as I sped along. I was elated, not only by the speed, the wind blowing against all the clothing I had protecting my skin, but by the thought of Maggie. In my home.

And I was uneasy, too. I had no doubt I could help Maggie. But be a mom? I didn't have any experience with that. Lord knew, I didn't have a great example to start with. And my life since my own mother's death had consisted of helping people help themselves. It was a process I knew. Was good at. Loved.

And I loved Maggie. Full-time.

I took two strides while I let my mind go and just
felt.
Yes, I loved this girl. Two more strides. I avoided a fallen twig with some crumpled leaves. Okay—the absolute truth. I wanted Maggie in my life. Period.

Now what? I skated on. Waiting. For what, I didn't know. For more.

The wind had picked up. I didn't feel it. How could I, mummified as I was? But I heard it. Cutting through the clump of trees I'd just passed.

It was an odd wind. Like a force behind me. On a perfectly blue, sunshiny day. My skate hit a pebble. I stumbled. Felt that familiar flash of fear as the ground loomed closer at a crashing speed. Then with instincts honed to the wheels on my feet, I righted myself. And pushed on. Another stride. It wasn't smooth. I was off my mark. Out of rhythm.

And there was something behind me. Jerking, I glanced briefly over my shoulder, and saw a blur of dark blue.

My first thought was that he'd just drive on by me. Then somehow I sensed that wasn't going to happen. Raising the toe of my right skate, I applied pressure to the rubber brake on the back, slowing to let him pass.

There was a thump. Close by? Or far away? Hot wrenching pain seared through my shoulder and neck. Everything was dark. Silent. I was going down….

 

Kelly Chapman.
Sitting at a table in the FBI resident agency in southwest Ohio, Clay Thatcher stared at the picture he'd just been given. Another one to add to the stack.

Short blond hair.

Blue eyes.

Thirty-one years old.

Single.

A psychologist.

The photo, provided by the Chandler Police Department, had been taken at an antique car show in downtown Chandler a couple of months ago. Head tilted slightly, as though she had a question, Kelly Chapman was smiling.

“Ms. Chapman was last seen leaving her office this morning, just after ten. According to her receptionist, Deb Brown, she was planning to go in-line skating,” Scott Levin, special agent in charge of one of Ohio's largest field
offices, said. He'd driven down to the office to hand-deliver this one.

“That was less than five hours ago,” Clay said. Not really long enough for an adult to be considered missing. Certainly not long enough to bring in the FBI.

“She missed her afternoon appointments. In all her years of practice, that's a first.”

“So her receptionist called it in?”

“No, she has a foster daughter.” Scott looked down at the pages he held. “Fourteen-year-old Maggie Winston. Ms. Chapman was recently granted full custody of the girl. Maggie knows a cop in town, a Samantha Jones. She called Samantha shortly after the lunch hour when Kelly couldn't be reached. Today was early release from school, and Maggie has to call every day as soon as she gets home.”

“What about this Deb woman?” Clay asked. “If her boss had never missed an appointment, why didn't she call someone?”

“I'm not sure,” Scott said.

“Which makes her the first person we need to speak to.” Clay glanced back at the picture. “If the local guys haven't even done the basics, why are we all over this one?”

He didn't mean to be heartless, but they already had far more work than they could handle. Two young girls who'd been missing for a couple of weeks. A possible terrorist cell in Dayton. And a local businessman they suspected of money laundering. A woman who could very well have decided to play hooky for a day didn't usually come under their radar. “The locals
are
all over it. Ms. Chapman's briefcase was in her office. Her purse was not. They've searched her home, as well. Nothing was disturbed or obviously missing, other than her purse. And her cell phone. They assume it's with her. They've called it multiple times and
she's not picking up. When they do a GPS trace, the phone pings in an area around where the woman skates, but no one's been able to locate it.

“And…” his director continued “…
we
are all over this because Ms. Chapman is not just a psychologist. She's on the national expert witness registry.” Oh.
Shit.

Clay stared his boss in the eye. “Which means she's a target to who knows how many convicted criminals across the country, and that makes this a major crime.”

“Right. And she's a major part of the prosecution in a drug case that's coming up in Florida.”

“Do we have a list of all her recent cases?”

“We're working on it.”

“I'm assuming someone's searched the area around her usual skating route? In case she fell or something.”

“Samantha Jones went to high school with Kelly. They're friends. She knows exactly where Ms. Chapman skates and made a run out there as soon as she took Maggie's call. There are several places to park, but Ms. Chapman's car wasn't at any of them. Detective Jones and the tri-county park security group have already taken a utility cart along the skate paths in case she'd fallen and needed medical attention. They're waiting for you to conduct a more thorough search. Detective Jones didn't want to contaminate a possible crime scene.”

“They went along the whole route and didn't find anything?” Clay asked. “Not a piece of clothing? A knee pad? Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“So what about her car? Anyone seen it?”

“Negative. The Fort County Sheriff's Department has an APB out on it.”

“Fort County sheriff, Chandler police and park security and she's only been gone a few hours?”

“What can I tell you? The lady's popular. Born and raised here.”

“Okay. How many people can I have?”

“Two full-time until she's found. More if necessary. I need you on this one exclusively. The Florida trial, it's a kid who witnessed his mother's murder. This Chapman woman was able to get through to him to ID the killer. We have to find this woman so he'll testify.”

“Right.” Because of a trial. Not because she had a kid at home who was probably scared to death. Or because her life was in danger. Or maybe even because the kid in Florida needed his shrink. “What about her kid?” he asked. “Who's got her?”

“Samantha Jones, at the moment. They've got the girl and Chapman's poodle, too, out at a farm Jones and her husband have. A guy named Kyle Evans. You might want to talk to them first.”

“I'm on it,” Clay said, and added, “I'll need the dogs.” Willie, the bloodhound, trailed, and Abigale was an air scent canine agent. They each had handlers.

Tapping the picture on the table, Clay stood, saying a mental goodbye to the beer that was waiting for him at home.

Some day. Some year. Someplace.

I was freezing. My teeth were chattering so hard they woke me up. Where was my comforter? And Camy? She was always a warm weight at my back when I slept.

I had to find her, but first I had to sleep some more….

God, it was cold. What made it so cold in here? I tried to move, open my eyes to see, but my arms and legs wouldn't budge. The bed felt like rock. Halfheartedly, really just needing to sleep, I tried to roll over, to get a little more com
fortable. I wasn't able to move. More awake, I attempted to straighten my leg. And couldn't.

Panic raising, I lay there. My shivering grew more intense. I didn't seem to be able to control that, either. Had I had a stroke? My pulse beat at my temples; my head screamed with pain.

I'd had a stroke. That was the only explanation. I was dying. Could I open my eyes? Did I want to?

I considered my options for a few seconds. Did I have any?

“Help!” I had to try something.

Miraculously, my voice worked. Sort of.

Maggie. Where was Maggie?

My eyes flew open. And saw more of the same darkness I'd seen with them closed. Was I blind, too?

But no, there was a hint of shadow. A darkening over there. I tried to move my head and the pain was so severe I almost puked. But my arm jerked in the process. It was behind me. They both were. Aching. Stiff.

My head hurt.

I hurt all over. Burned. Was I on fire with fever?

Fever didn't sting. I stung. But I also shivered. Was there any heat on?

“Help!” I screamed the word again and again, sending blasts of pain through my head every time.

When my throat was so dry there was almost no sound left, I stopped. As I lay there, my thoughts slowed. I became quietly, dreadfully aware. Instead of working on my legs, I tried to move a finger. Then two. I succeeded.

And scraped my knuckle against hard ground. Cement or rock. At the same time I realized something else. My hands were bound. The stinging at my wrists was because they were tied tightly together with some kind of rough material. Rope probably.

Tears trickled from my eyes over my nose and dripped
down to the surface beneath me. The pounding in my head made it hard to think.

I'm in trouble.

Serious trouble.

And then I remembered. I'd been skating. The wind was behind me. There was a flash of blue. Getting closer. And then…nothing.

Adrenaline started pumping. Sending fear in its wake. More alert, I tried to wriggle my toes. They moved. And encountered leather. Familiar leather. My skates.

I was still wearing my skates.

And my ankles were bound together.

Okay. I wasn't paralyzed. I was tied up. And must have been hit in the head.

Was I alone? Was it nighttime or was I in a cavern or a cellar somewhere? Was it still Friday? Friday had been the day I'd gone skating, right?

“Help!” I tried again.

I thought back. I'd had an appointment cancel because my client went into labor. Yeah. And I'd had a free hour before lunch because I wasn't working at the soup kitchen; I didn't work on Fridays since that was the day the Chandler police did their stint.