The Fourth Victim (6 page)

“I can do that.”

Normally he wouldn't want a friend of the victim on his team, but nothing about this case felt normal.

“We need every situation in which money was successfully collected,” he said. “Whether the victim's life was spared…or not.”

“I understand.”

Clay was sure she did. And, hand in the pocket of his slacks, he stared out at the blue horizon.

“I'll put in a request for the money,” he said after a brief silence. “Get back to me.” Clay clicked his phone shut, blocking any remaining image of the female cop back home in Ohio who knew the woman in the picture attached to Clay's dash. Knew her and cared about her.

He was there to work. And not to care.

Emotion clouded judgment. Clay couldn't afford to feel any.

T
he trees were barren, tall trunks and dead-looking branches with no leaves to offer protection from prying eyes.

But the woods were thick, and just yards into them the road could no longer be seen. Making anyone walking among the fallen leaves and twigs invisible from the road. Invisible to anyone passing by.

The area was government-owned. Protected land. Part of a battleground dating back before 1776. He'd walked among the trees as a boy, having ridden his bike out here with plastic cowboy and Indian figures in his pockets.

When he was younger, he'd spent a fair bit of time in the cemetery in town, too. Pretty much everyone he'd known who'd died was in that cemetery. His parents. His grandparents. A friend from high school who'd been killed in a car accident. A friend from recent years, Bob Branson.

Even his brother-in-law, the deputy he'd thought so clever but who'd really been a stupid, greedy man—Chuck Sewell. He'd been shot in the chest, killed with one bullet, by the female cop who'd outsmarted him.

But that cemetery held other graves, as well. Graves of men who'd lived long ago, soldiers who knew the true meaning of bravery. Of sacrifice. Men who'd done what
it took to protect their own. Patriots. Men who'd inspired him, who'd taught him where he'd come from, what he could be. He'd read the tombstones so many times he could recite the words by heart. Didn't matter that the stones were old, some fallen and crumbling, worn almost to the point of illegibility. He'd made out the words. Born August 19, 1776. Died October 12, 1802. Aged 26.

And the children. There were children, so many of them. Little headstones with lambs or angels on top.

And the young soldiers. Aged 19 years, 6 months, 14 hours. Aged 17 years, 4 months, 10 hours. Aged 24 years.

They went on and on.

The one he stopped at most often, the one that called to him, had a man's name across it—
Jonathan Abrams. Born June 1799. Died February 1892.
And then, lower down,
Elizabeth.
That was it. Just a first name. Followed by
Wife of Jonathan Abrams. Born November 1818. Died January 1892.

They were his great-great-great-grandparents. Jonathan had been nineteen years older than Elizabeth, his second wife. And he'd loved her so much he'd died one month after her passing.

Nineteen years older. Jonathan had been a celebrated war hero. A soldier. A God-fearing, country-serving man who'd helped found Chandler. A man of honor and distinction.

And he'd been in love with a woman nineteen years younger than himself. There was nothing wrong with that. Elizabeth had been fourteen when Jonathan married her. Had children by her. Who'd had children, who'd had children, and so on, culminating with David and his sister, who had children of their own.

David had been born to serve. To do whatever it took to keep Chandler and her people safe and thriving.

He was a smart man. A quick study, his parents had been told when he'd started school. And he was a principled man.

Many might not understand. He accepted that. Just as he understood his destiny.

He was a patriot, walking the same ground as his forefathers, fighting the same fight—the battle to preserve freedom and the rights of the individual, to uphold the Constitution of the United States. But while the fight might be the same, the means were different. Because the times were different. They weren't just warding off arrows anymore. And they weren't merely trying to maintain control of their land.

Walking through the now-barren woods in the quiet of a December Saturday morning, David thought back to that Saturday afternoon not so many weeks ago when he'd made a difficult choice. He'd made a mistake.

If he could take back that afternoon, he would. He couldn't. So he had to move forward. He had to meet his obligations.

Leaves crackled beneath his boots as he walked. He was grateful for the silence around him and craved the right to live as his ancestors had.

David knew he didn't have to stay in Chandler. He had it easy. But others weren't as affluent—or as aware, as acutely aware, of the lives around him. There were those who could remain blind to the degradation. The fear and the poverty. He could not.

So he walked among century-old trees that had been witness to life's battles. In woods that had sparked his imagination as a child and his soul as a young man.

And far back in those woods was a small clearing. He knew. He'd created it himself. Perhaps there was danger in being there.

Danger for him. And for those he served if anything happened to him.

He wouldn't linger. Wouldn't jeopardize everything that those who depended on him stood to lose. But he was obligated to come here. He'd started something. And he had to see it through.

He was a man of honor. And like his forefathers, he would go to any lengths to see that he fulfilled his responsibilities. That the good in which he believed was preserved. For his children. And their children. And the children who would come after them.

Sucking cold air into his lungs, David slowed his pace.

Timing was critical. He must be patient.

And life was precious. Sometimes lives were sacrificed for the greater good. His time among the ancient headstones had taught him that lesson well. One or two people could not be allowed to bring down a nation, a society or even threaten the health of one small town.

Sometimes people had to die.

But he would always pay his respects. And mourn the losses.

David started to breathe a little heavier as he neared the clearing. Would she…

After all these weeks would he finally get to—

Breaking through the trees, he looked everywhere at once, took in every inch of that eight-by-eight-foot sacred place where he'd shown his sweet Maggie how very much she was loved. Just as Elizabeth had been loved by Jonathan…

The area was empty. And yet…

Noticing the red nestled securely among the leaves, David stepped forward and stared.

A silk rose, it's long stem tucked under the brush upon which it lay. A red rose. Just like the ones he'd given her.

There was no note. She'd know the risk. And she'd understand that he couldn't take her gift. But with the handkerchief he pulled from his pocket, David lifted the rose, then tucked it back in place, facing the opposite direction.

She'd understand. And be comforted.

She was still his. He knew that now.

Because she'd been here.

 

By 9:30 on Saturday morning, a little less than twenty-four hours after Kelly Chapman had disappeared, Clay had turned over the physical search for Kelly Chapman to local police forces, FBI agents and volunteers in Tennessee, Kentucky and Ohio. Another crew was going over the bike trail again, headed up by Barry. They were expanding into neighboring areas, as well. And all ditches along the roads between the skate track and Tennessee were being scoured by volunteers.

Barry and JoAnne were coordinating all these efforts, monitoring incoming information and poring over personnel records.

Before heading back to Ohio, Clay visited Kelly's Nitro one more time. He didn't expect to find anything. An FBI forensic team had already processed every inch of the car, inside and out. But he had to look anyway. Twenty-four hours, more than a hundred people on the search, and they hadn't found so much as a shoelace.

Sitting in the front seat of her car, gazing out over the secured parking lot where the vehicle would be kept until further notice, he tried to put himself in her place. To imagine her life as a small-town counselor and national expert witness. She'd experienced a lot of the trauma that his days contained. But probably not as much death.

He hoped to God not as much death.

What did she think about? Hope for? Want? Would any of those things drive her now?

He had to think how she thought. Know what she knew.

Rubbing his hands along the leather steering wheel, Clay imagined her hands there. Her grip was sure. Firm. But not too tight.

It was as though he could
feel
her.

And she could be dead.

He reached for his cell phone.

Clay dialed the Michigan exchange and the number JoAnne had given him that morning—a home number for defense attorney Erin Morgan, gleaned from Kelly Chapman's files.

She answered on the second ring. Erin Morgan hadn't seen the news. And was clearly upset about the reason for Clay's call, speaking of an affection for his missing person that didn't surprise Clay. Kelly Chapman was obviously a woman people were drawn to.

“We're reviewing all of Ms. Chapman's recent cases,” Clay told Erin, sitting in the now-impounded vehicle Kelly Chapman had driven to Michigan for her meeting with this woman. “I need to know anything you can tell me that might point to a possible suspect in her disappearance.”

He'd already been in touch with government officials and did not believe they were dealing with an issue of national security—at least, not one that was officially recognized. He'd gained sympathy from the higher-ups at his agency in Washington, but no help other than an offer to keep eyes and ears open and to inform Clay immediately if anything turned up.

“I'm not really the one you should be speaking to,” Erin said, sounding calm—but worried. A combination
he'd learned to respect. And hate. It usually meant there
was
something to worry about. “I involved Kelly in this, but my fiancé is the one who'd know anything that could help.”

He waited, thumb rapping against the steering wheel, while the woman spoke in muffled tones to someone in the room with her.

“Rick Thomas here, sir. What can I do for you?” The voice came strong and clear over the line a couple of seconds later.

Clay recognized the name. Thomas was the rogue undercover agent JoAnne had told him about. She'd failed to mention that the man was engaged to his defense attorney. Clay hoped to God these were people he could trust. He knew he was out of time and was going to have to take some chances.

He told Rick Thomas only that the woman who'd interviewed him several weeks before was missing.

“Erin said she went skating and didn't return.” Thomas's reply was succinct. Almost curt.

Clay replied in kind. “That's right.”

“What clues do you have?”

“We found her car in Tennessee.” That much was on the news.

“So whoever has her took her out of state immediately.”

“Correct.”

“Have there been any hits on credit cards?”

“No.” Not that it was any of Thomas's business, but the information wasn't classified and he needed the man's cooperation.

“It seems she vanished without a trace,” Thomas said.

“We're working on some leads.” Working on hunches and supposition was more like it.

“I wish I could help, Agent Thatcher, but I hardly knew her. My one conversation with her was brief and touched primarily on a murder I'd been charged with—a local Homeland Security officer—and have subsequently been cleared of committing.”

“Do you know of anyone who might feel threatened by what you told Dr. Chapman during that meeting?”

“No. The man who committed the murder confessed right before he was shot in self-defense by the county sheriff. His accomplice, a deputy sheriff here, also confessed and is in jail.”

Something wasn't adding up. A local murder didn't equate with national security. Or undercover agents—legitimate or not.

JoAnne had said Kelly Chapman's file referred to a rogue undercover agent. Not just a local murder.

“I'd like to leave a number with you to call if you think of anything,” Clay said, his mind racing as he rattled off the Ohio office number.

“You're in Ohio, then?” Thomas asked. Clay almost didn't answer. But Erin Morgan was a woman the missing psychologist had trusted. And Erin, in turn, obviously trusted Rick Thomas.

“No, I'm in Tennessee,” he said. “But my office will find me if you need me.”

With a quick apology for not being more help, Thomas was gone, the line went dead and Clay was left wondering if he'd just hung Kelly Chapman out to dry. A covert ops agent would certainly have the skills to make a woman disappear without a trace. A rogue agent, even more so.

And Clay had let the man know where he was currently focusing his search.

Clay hadn't mentioned the ransom call. Neither had Thomas or Morgan. Might mean something. And might mean nothing at all.

Still Day Two

I heard footsteps. A single set of them. Heavy. Clomp. Clomp. Sticks broke.

Thank God.
I started to cry out but my throat was so dry it hurt and I gagged.

And scraped my wrists on the rock behind me at a faster pace.

And then, as the sounds came steadily closer, I stopped all movement. And listened.

Shivering from the inside out.

Why wasn't someone calling my name? If these were searchers, looking for me, they'd be calling my name. Wouldn't they? Searchers always called names.

No one was calling my name.

Were they?

I couldn't tell. Was that my name I heard in the distance? Very faintly?

They'd have to call my name to find me. They wouldn't know exactly where I was.

The footsteps were almost upon me.

They'd walked straight at me. Oh, God.

My captor had returned.

If those were really footsteps I was hearing. Were they?

I tried to swallow and my lips cracked open. I could taste blood.

Was my captor bringing me food? Or water at least?

Did he want me alive?

Or was he coming to see if I was dead?

Was he going to hurt me now? Rape me? Or maybe just kill me since I hadn't died yet?

I was scared. So scared. My heart pounded way too fast and I wondered if this was where I'd die.

I pushed my feet together, resting one skate against the other. The chafing of the skate buckle on the rope was still visible. But only from the inside edge of one skate.