The Fourth Victim (5 page)

J
oAnne answered before the phone could ring twice. “Morning, boss.”

He preferred her not to call him that. Which was why she did it, he was sure. His second-in-command seemed to have made it her life's calling to annoy him whenever she could.

“What've you got?”

He'd showered at a truck stop—not the first time he'd done so in the ten years he'd been an agent—and was back in his black, government-issue Taurus, the gray corduroy suit jacket his only concession to the cool December Tennessee morning. He'd decided against a tie, since he was on the road, but had one on the seat beside him if he needed it.

“Get this. The foster child…” JoAnne started right in. “The girl's mother brought her to Kelly because she was afraid her daughter was sexually interested in an older man.”

“The mother who's in jail for selling her kid to the drug trade?”

“Yeah. She didn't have a problem with making money off the kid, but not for sex. She didn't want the girl ending up like her, pregnant and quitting high school. But that's
not all of it, not by a long shot. Kelly Chapman found out that this girl had never even been kissed, but she fancied herself in love with someone Kelly believed to be in his thirties.”

Kelly. Not Ms. Chapman. Or “our missing person.” Obviously spending the night with Kelly Chapman's files had had an effect on JoAnne.

Staring at the five-by-seven photo taped to his dash, Clay tried to get inside the mind of the woman he was seeking. He'd stuck her picture up there the night before. So he could work as he drove. Or so he'd told himself.

There was something about those vivid blue eyes that called out to him. Something that was different from the hundreds of other pictures of missing persons he'd studied over the years.

JoAnne continued with what she'd learned. “Hoping the girl's crush was just adolescent transference, but afraid it was more than that, Kelly called her friend Samantha Jones to help her find the guy before it was too late.”

Two determined women looking out for a young woman in trouble. The kind of thing fairy tales were made of. Maggie was one lucky girl.

“She called Samantha Jones, the detective Maggie's staying with now,” he said.

“Right. But they didn't make it in time.”

Clay frowned. The young girl he'd just spoken to had been—

“What does that mean?” he asked abruptly.

“She had sex with the guy. In a tent outside town. He'd planned the whole scenario.” JoAnne's tone took on an unusual bitterness. “Get this, the dude brings chocolate like a guy might if he was seducing a woman, but in this case, he brings chocolate cookies with white icing. They
were Maggie's favorites. He brought
cookies,
Clay. To a seduction. He knew damned well he was having a liaison with a child.”

“I take it he's in jail?”

“Nope. They know who he is, although there's no evidence to prove it and Maggie isn't saying. She calls the guy Mac. But she doesn't say anything else about him. According to Kelly's notes, Maggie is in trauma-induced denial. Apparently she's so emotionally fragile that she has to believe in him, regardless of what anyone tells her. She believes he loves her. The alternative, to know she'd been abused in the worst possible way, is too much for her to handle right now. Her conscious mind can't accept that Mac isn't who and what he claims to be.”

Nothing was ever as it seemed.

“Find out everything you can about this Mac guy.”

“He's that lawyer, David Abrams.”

“You said there was no evidence.”

“Not admissible evidence.” JoAnne sounded weary. Clay understood. “They know that the man who had sex with Maggie was the one who gave her the drugs. That's how she met him. And that deputy who was killed, he told Kyle Evans that Abrams was the one who gave Maggie the drugs to deliver. They showed Maggie a picture of Abrams but she's adamant that he's not her Mac.”

“And since the deputy is dead, Kyle's testimony is only hearsay. I'm guessing the confession wasn't taped.”

“Right.”

“So this lawyer who's so well liked, well respected and still practicing law in Chandler is a pedophile.”

“You got it. And he's also the devoted father of four kids with a fifth on the way. There's no suggestion of any misconduct, either with his own kids or anyone else. His
weakness seems to be specifically Maggie, not young girls in general.”

“Does he know that Kelly and Samantha are on to him?”

“Yep. Detective Jones told him in no uncertain terms that he'd better be watching every step because they were going to get him.”

“Unless he gets them first.”

“There is that.”

“Put someone on him.”

“Done.”

If Abrams was behind Kelly Chapman's disappearance, his chances of finding her in time weren't good.

Clay studied the picture attached to his dash, trying not to envision that sassy short blond hair matted with blood. Dark images came with this business. Probably some kind of subconscious preparation for what might be ahead.

Because if he found her dead, he'd still have paperwork to do. Still have to get up the next day. And move on to the next case.

“What about the other files?” he said now, parked at the truck stop where he'd purchased the foil-wrapped reheated breakfast burrito he had yet to eat.

JoAnne had the gift. She could trudge through seemingly unending evidence and ferret out the strongest leads. He trusted her judgment implicitly.

“That bigamy case… James Todd, the bigamist charged with murdering his second wife, caused several injuries to a woman named Jane Hamilton, the first wife, but she'd convinced herself she simply was accident-prone. Kelly helped her come to terms with her past and the woman's testimony as a result of that put the man in prison.”

Those blue eyes gazed out at him. The hint of a smile made him want to smile back.

“And we're sure he's still there.”

“Yes, but that doesn't mean he hasn't sent someone else to do his work.”

“Have Barry check out all visitors Todd's had. And any friends he's made inside, as well.”

“Got it.”

“What else?”

“A case in Michigan… She interviewed a guy, a Rick Thomas, who believed he was an undercover ops agent working for the Department of Defense, but it turned out his army sergeant had sold him out and he'd been heavily involved in underworld crime. The sergeant's dead, but he had a network about as big as AT&T. Any one of them could think Kelly knows something that could implicate them.”

“We're talking millions of dollars here, right? Not small-scale dealing?”

“We're talking national security,” JoAnne said. “And billions. There's a napkin in the file from a place called Roselane Inn in Temple, Michigan. I recognized Kelly's handwriting on it. It says that Thomas's attorney, Erin Morgan, thought there was a mole in the Department of Defense. It's not clear whether or not that mole was the sergeant or someone else.”

“Who might still be in the office…and worried that this psychologist knows more than she should.” He studied the woman he'd spent the night with. “Except if that's the case, why do
we
have Chapman's files? If someone was going to be bold enough to take her, why not take her files, too?”

“They had to kidnap her when the chance presented itself. And then go for the files. Her office is in downtown Chandler, right across from the courthouse. There are law enforcement vehicles up and down the street. Anyone expecting to break in and get away with a bunch of files would have to do it at night. Because we were called in on the case so early, we had them by then.”

“I'll call Erin Morgan and see if I can speak to this Thomas guy.”

“Good. And then there's the Florida case. The perp the kid's set to ID is a member of the Oils.” A nationally organized street gang.

“Who's the prosecutor on the case?” Clay wrote the name and number—another call he'd be making.

“There are several local cases, too,” JoAnne said. “A woman whose gay spouse came out of the closet as a result of counseling with Kelly. There was a threatening letter to Kelly from the ex-wife in the guy's file. And then there's a man who lost custody of his kids after Kelly got them to tell her how he'd lock them in closets when he drank so he couldn't hurt them like he'd hurt their mother. And a man who'd had an affair and was divorced by his wife after she'd sought help from Kelly—”

“I get the picture,” Clay said. He had the picture, all right. He was looking at it. Short blond hair. Blue eyes. Head tilted slightly as though she had a question. Smiling.

This was no ordinary woman.

Clay had to find her. He had questions, too. Way too many of them. Like could he get to her in time? Or was he already too late?

Still Day Two

Now that it was fully light I could make out my prison and there was nothing but rock walls leading to the rock floor where I sat, with some kind of hardy vegetation protruding in a couple of places. A smaller area led upward to the sliver of light. There was no way I could make it up that tunnel with my hands tied behind me, my legs bound, my feet encased in skates.

I was still sitting. Making myself stay awake. Trying to
figure out what to do. I leaned my head against the wall, but didn't stay in that position. I'd fall asleep if I did.

I'd been throwing my feet apart over and over for a long time now. Maybe an hour. Maybe three. I didn't have my watch. I never skated with my watch.

The weight of my skates helped. Instead of being bound tight, the rope around my ankles had stretched a couple of inches. And it was beginning to fray where it rubbed against the skate buckle.

My hands were making even more progress than my feet. I was rubbing them along the sharp rock at my back. Over and over.

The rope was giving.

My blood was warm against what was left of my skin. It had caked to my sleeve, too, making it sticky.

“Sleeves are good.” I tried to speak, but my throat was dry and raspy. I'd been talking to myself for most of my life. Until Camy arrived, that is. Then I started talking to her.

Either way, the sound of my voice wasn't new to me. Neither was hearing my thoughts out loud.

Was that strange?

I couldn't decide. Couldn't get a feel for what
strange
might be. At the moment, strange didn't matter.

Freeing my hands did. If I got away, and they ever traced me to this cave, they'd have a sample of my blood to prove I'd been there.

They'd tell my story—about how I rubbed my hands against the wall for hours, scraping away my skin in the process, to break the ties that bound me.

I'd tried to sing earlier. It hadn't worked.

“But I don't need my voice to survive,” I said softly, then swallowed against the dryness.

At least the shivering had stopped. I imagined that the sun was shining, but I couldn't see much through the brush
at what I assumed was the opening of the cave. I was warm enough, anyway.

I'd wet myself again, too. Not much comfort in that. No good crying about it, either. But I couldn't help it.

It wasn't likely to happen too much more if I didn't get out of there and get some water. I was becoming dehydrated.

No telling what was outside my cave, but at this point, I'd suck dew off the grass.

A teardrop hit my lips and I touched it with my tongue. Tasting salt.

Scared to death, I rubbed harder against the rock. Threw my feet faster. And drank from my own tears knowing as I did that they'd be soon gone.

 

Clay canvassed the immediate vicinity of the location where they'd found Kelly Chapman's car, while Tennessee state and local police knocked on doors, checked reports and investigated gas stations from the Kentucky-Tennessee state line to Knoxville.

Either Kelly still had a full tank from the last time she'd used her credit card to pay for gas—which had been Thursday morning—or someone else had fueled up someplace other than Tennessee.

Or…another alternative. Someone was lying to them.

Ohio and Kentucky law enforcement were on the hunt, as well.

There was no sign of Kelly Chapman's purse or anything that might've been in it. Her credit cards hadn't been used yet.

And her cell phone no longer pinged. Probably dead.

Clay prayed that wasn't an omen.

He had calls to make, possible suspects to eliminate, but the more pressing concern was to find any physical trail before it got too cold to follow.

Since her car was in Tennessee he was going on the assumption that his victim was there, as well.

Detective Jones called just before nine. Clay pulled his phone out of the holder at his belt.

“We got a ransom call on Kelly's line.” The detective had arranged for all calls to be forwarded to her home. Her voice was shaking with urgency. “It came in one minute ago. I tried to keep the guy on the line long enough for a trace, but he didn't give me a chance. He knew what he was doing.”

“What'd he say?”

“Just that if we wanted to see Kelly Chapman again, we had twenty-four hours to collect two million dollars.”

“Collect,” Clay said. “He knows she doesn't have that kind of money—and that enough people care about her to be able to raise it.”

“And he's giving us time to do it. Which tells me he's serious. He believes he's going to succeed.”

“Where does he want us to leave the money?”

“He didn't say. Didn't mention a time that he'll contact us again, either.”

“We've got nothing to go on. No intelligence at all.”

“Like I said, he knows what he's doing.”

“We need to check records on kidnappings in the Midwest and any successful ransom pays over the past ten years,” Clay said.