When Shadows Fall (20 page)

Chapter
42

Washington, D.C.

THEY WERE GOING
in circles, and Fletcher was getting frustrated.

Rachel Stevens had been missing for over twenty-four hours and the window to find her safe and unhurt was rapidly closing. The media firestorm was at a fever pitch. Every news station, local and national, had trucks parked across D.C.—at the snatch site, at FBI Headquarters, in the Stevenses’ neighborhood—their satellite dishes pushing constant updates into the D.C. night. Blame would be next, aspersions toward law enforcement, most of whom hadn’t slept and had barely eaten for the past day as they searched for the child.

At least they hadn’t made the connection between Kaylie Rousch and Rachel Stevens yet. That would drive them into a tsunami.

Fletcher was on his way to Bethesda again to talk with Rachel Stevens’s parents—the mother was back from her overseas assignment and Fletcher wanted a chance to go at her face-to-face—when he got the call. They had a break in the case, and he needed to get his butt back to the Hoover Building.

Fletcher dodged through the suburbs into the Washington streets, the ever-familiar white marble and snapping American flags, worrying about Sam and the Matcliff case, and about young Rachel Stevens. Worried about the case that wasn’t his, the clouded eyes of a young man, staked to a dock to drown. Worried himself right into an upset stomach, stopped and fanned the flames with a Super Big Gulp of Diet Coke. He finally had to dig some antacid tablets out of the glove box to calm things down.

He blamed it on getting older, this worrying, not being able to turn off his emotions as well as he used to. When he was on patrol, and even in the early days in homicide, he was the iceman, able to stomach the most obscene crime scenes imaginable—and in D.C., there were plenty—without a qualm.

But five or so years ago, he’d felt a change. Cases began coming home with him at night, seeping into his dreams, following him on his runs. He’d done the rational thing—too much drinking, too many affairs, a toot here or there, until his wife got fed up and left him, taking his only child with her. His ex was remarried now, and had just had twins with her new husband.

They’d patched things up recently, and that made him happy. He’d gotten himself straight, done his job with his son, refocused his attention on his career. He’d been a man about it all. But the darkness was always with him now, the edge. It wouldn’t let him forget how close he’d come to throwing it all away.

Sam Owens was the biggest reminder of them all. She got to him, the way she handled herself, her grace in the face of the abyss. She hadn’t let herself be sucked in, and damn it all, he wouldn’t, either.

God, what was he going to do when he was homicide lieutenant? He was turning into a full-blown mother hen. Maybe that’s why Armstrong had tapped him. He knew things had changed and Fletcher was going to be a little more attentive to those around him.

Traffic was terrible—the Redskins had a preseason game—but he barreled through, his spinning light and wailing siren forcing cars to the side of the street. He finally made it up Pennsylvania Avenue, parked and rushed into the Hoover Building just in time for his second briefing of the day on the missing girl.

Agent Blake met him in the lobby, clearly excited. She hurried him through the check-in process but wouldn’t tell him what was going on, just said there was a
development.

The word hung heavy in the air. He knew the tiniest bit of intelligence could alter the direction of an investigation, and hoped this was good news.

The conference room she took him to this time was on another floor, and it wasn’t quiet and calm, but frenetic. There were several screens on the walls—aerial topographic maps, what he thought must be video camera footage from the snatch site. A close-up shot of a footprint in cement and a cigarette butt. A large photograph of Rachel Stevens on her last birthday, the most recent full-frontal shot her parents had. Agents and techs flowed in and out of the room. They were in constant contact with Thurber, who, despite John Baldwin’s dictate, was back on the case and parked at the Stevens house.

They sat Fletcher at the table and shoved a stack of photographs in front of him. Blake crossed her arms and said, “Detective Fletcher, do you recognize this man?”

He flipped through them. The photos weren’t the highest quality, and he had to squint to make out the man who was circled in red. He was a male Caucasian with a broad face, buzz-cut blond hair and light eyes. He wasn’t fully facing the camera, but Fletcher didn’t recognize him, said so. Blake plopped another photo down.

“You sure?”

This one was clearer, face-front. It was black-and-white, clearly taken many years earlier. The picture gave a sense of the man’s stature—he was big. Really big.

Something tickled the back of Fletcher’s brain. “Wait a minute. He does look familiar. I think I questioned this guy years ago. He was loitering around the homeless down by Whitehurst. There’d been some disappearances, and we were watching the area closely. He seemed to be around a lot. Homeless said he was a high school kid who brought them food and blankets, but I thought he was shifty. Is this our suspect? Who is he?”

“Your file says his name is Adrian Zamyatin.”

“Another one of the names in Matcliff’s will.”

“Right you are. He also seems to be a rather prolific serial killer who’s managed to stay under the radar for a very, very long time. Detective Davidson sent this—” She set a picture from a home security camera in front of him, time-stamped the previous afternoon. “It’s from Ellie Scarron’s house. They believe he was her attacker. We ran it through the NGI facial recognition system, and it spit out a match. When we entered his name into our national crimes database, we found your old case file.”

“Lucky I took good notes back then.”

“No kidding.” Jordan swooped her hair back from her face into a ponytail. The formal attitude relaxed. “So we’ve put everything into ViCAP, right? Nothing pops. Then we started adding in the other geographical areas where the Eden NRM settled over the years. Bam. The computer pegged a very troubling scenario that matches our earlier assumptions. Not only is there a girl missing from each of these towns, but there’s a series of unsolved murders in each, as well.”

“Nice job. How many are we talking?”

“We’ve managed to tie twenty together so far, and those are just the cities who’ve entered their case data into ViCAP. There could be more.”

Fletcher let that sink in, whistled softly. “Seems our Adrian Zamyatin gets around. Have you told Dr. Baldwin about this?”

“Oh, yes. He called a bit ago. We’ve confirmed this man was a part of Eden. An integral part.”

“How did you confirm this?”

“Your friend Sam’s been entertaining Kaylie Rousch for the past hour.”

Fletcher sat back in his chair. “Man, I miss all the fun. When’d she show up?”

And why hadn’t Sam called him? Why had she gone straight to John Baldwin, profiler extraordinaire?

Oh, shut up, Fletch. You’re being a jealous old hag. There’s plenty of room on this case for everyone.

“Apparently she broke into Dr. Owens’s house. Mr. Whitfield called Dr. Baldwin. They felt the girl needed a psychological exam as much as questioning.”

Figures.
He felt his blood pressure rise despite his mental chiding.
Damn it.
That woman was going to get herself killed one of these days, thinking she could handle everything. “She should have called the police.”

“The girl’s talking, so we’re taking advantage of it. Are you ready for this?”

“Nothing you say at this point will surprise me. Lay it on me, sister.”

“Wanna bet?”

“A beer.”

“You’re on. Eden wasn’t selling drugs. They’re in the baby-making business.”

“What?”

Jordan gave him a strained grin. “You should see the look on your face. You owe me a beer. From the briefing Baldwin just gave us, which was only a few minutes long, Adrian Zamyatin was used as a stud, for lack of a better term, getting the women of Eden pregnant, and then they’d sell the children. Called them pods, if you can believe it.” Her nose wrinkled, and he couldn’t help noticing it made her even cuter, but she clearly found all this disgusting. “There could have been hundreds over the years.”

“Who’d they sell them to?”

“We’re still working on that.”

“This is good news for Rachel Stevens, though, isn’t it? She’s only ten years old. It’s not like she can have a kid.”

Blake flushed. “Don’t be obtuse, Detective. Just because she can’t fulfill whatever bizarre quota system they have doesn’t mean they can’t start trying.”

“Of course. Sorry. Stupid of me.”

She yanked her ponytail holder out of her hair, which spilled loose around her neck. She rubbed her forehead. “No, my apologies, Detective. Can I call you Fletcher?”

“Fletch is fine.”

“Fletch, then. I’m a bit on edge. As it turns out, you may be right. The Rousch girl described her early days in Eden, and while it wasn’t pleasant, the sexual abuse didn’t begin right away. She’s helping Baldwin with some geographical profiling right now. He’s walking her through every detail about where they were so he can see if there’s a pattern to their movements over the years, so we can extrapolate where they are now. We’re also looking at every recent land purchase in Maryland and Virginia to see if anything with their corporate profile comes up.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Find this man for me.” She tapped the picture of Adrian Zamyatin. “He’s the key. There used to be a pattern to his kills, four people garroted, then a girl goes missing. It seems all jumbled together now—there were two garrotings and a strangulation, then Rachel went missing. We can’t find anything else that fits the pattern. Something’s different this time.”

“Has anyone looked at his connection to Matcliff? Outside of the cult, I mean?”

She blew out a huge breath, as if deciding how much to say. “We’ve run into some issues. Too many threads to pull, too little time. We have to focus on finding Rachel before it’s too late. Kaylie Rousch is telling stories that would make your hair curl. Five other little girls most likely went through the same thing. I want to be sure nothing happens to this one.”

“I get it. But here’s my armchair profile, for what it’s worth. Matcliff was strangled, not garroted. That screams
personal
to me.”

Jordan Blake had nice eyes. They were brown, not too dark, with flecks of green and blue in them when you saw her up close. She was close right now, staring at him while her brain processed what he’d said. “You think this Adrian knew him somehow? Outside of the time they spent in the cult?”

He nodded. “Either that or the Rousch girl isn’t telling us the whole truth. Has she been vetted at all? Positively ID’d? Anything she said verified?”

“We’re working on it. We’ll need DNA to confirm for sure. And hundreds of babies sold is both vague and a lot to track down.”

“Have you ever worked a slavery case before?”

“No, I haven’t. Have you?” She sat down in the chair next to him, still making that intense eye contact.

“No, but ‘selling’ equals a commodity. And it’s not like this is a common commodity. There’s a black market for organs. Why not babies?”

She leaned back in the chair. “Jesus.”

“Yeah. My thought exactly. You track who might be buying and selling kids, and we might get a little closer to the truth.”

She stared at him for a minute, chewing on her lip. “Where do you suggest we start?”

“Easy. The will. We’ve figured who several of the beneficiaries are. Anne Carter was Doug’s FBI boss. Thurber is his old partner. Curtis Lott—the leader of Eden. Zamyatin—our killer. Arthur Scarron was a beneficiary, but he was already dead, and his wife was nearly killed in his stead, so she must have known something, whether she realizes it or not. Frederick McDonald is the only one left, and we don’t know what his connection is yet. Why don’t we get someone to ask Miss Rousch who the hell he is? And see if she can’t tell us about this Lauren chick while she’s at it.”

Blake stood up, whipped her hair back into its no-nonsense ponytail. “Do it. Go talk to the girl. You’re onto something here, I can feel it. We’ll handle Rachel—now that we have a suspect, and a photograph for the media, this is going to move quickly. You go work this angle.”

“All right.” He stood up, stretched his shoulders to release some of the tension. Blake started walking away, then turned and gave him a blinding grin he felt right to his core.

He responded with a smile of his own. “Hey, Special Agent? Damn fine work.”

Chapter
43

Georgetown

SAM WATCHED KAYLIE
working the map with Baldwin, giving him as much information to go on as she could. Doug had been careful over the years to keep an eye on the whereabouts of the cult through the other missing girls, but he hadn’t been very forthcoming with Kaylie about anything, thinking the less she knew, the better.

They finally decided to take a break. Baldwin went to call in, and Sam brought Kaylie a warm slice of lemon cake and a cup of tea. Her face lit up at the cake, a child’s response to sweets, and she closed her eyes in bliss while she ate it.

Sam waited for the girl to get to the end of her treat. When she’d licked the last of the icing from her fingers, Sam approached her gently. “I have a question about Doug. Several, in fact.”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“Why didn’t he ever go to the authorities? You guys were out there in the woods alone for years. All he had to do was call, and they would have come running. Why did he try to brazen it out, all by himself? And if he knew all these things were happening to the girls, the abuse and the rape and the fear, why didn’t he pull the plug on it? He knew what happened to you. How could he let that happen to another girl?”

Kaylie set the plate down on the coffee table. Her shoulders hunched in. “Oh. I see. You’re blaming him for all of the bad things that happened in Eden.”

“No, I’m not. I’m curious why a man with his background—military, FBI, saving you—wouldn’t try to save everyone there. He seems like an honorable man. But to know the things that were happening and not report them? It seems very out of character.”

Kaylie’s face contorted, and tears shone in her eyes. “They abandoned him.”

“Who’s they?”

“The people he worked for. You don’t understand how hard it was for him to do what he did. Adrian was a good friend of Doug’s well before he brought him into the fold. And betrayal to Eden is the most terrible thing a person can do. But Doug did it, anyway—for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was religious about his check-ins. But no one ever responded.”

“His check-ins? Kaylie, I’m confused.”

Xander came over and sat in the overstuffed chair facing the fireplace. Kaylie gave him a long look, as if she was trying to decide if he was going to attack, and when he did nothing but sit quietly, hands on his knees, she relaxed and nodded.

“Doug didn’t tell me everything about it, but he tried to talk to them for a year and no one ever responded. He knew how much trouble he was in. He figured they’d cut him loose. I think he thought about it a lot. Whether enough time had passed, whether he could trust them not to throw him in jail. He needed to wait until I was strong enough to take care of myself and then, when they didn’t respond, he decided to go it alone.”

“Everything about what?”

“He called it
Sigint.
I didn’t know what it meant.”

Xander sat up quickly, making her flinch. “Sorry. SIGINT. Signal intelligence. It’s a way of capturing messages sent across electronic mediums. Clandestinely. Kaylie, how did he send the messages?”

“A computer.”

“Did he leave the cabin to do it?”

“Yes, every time. He’d never compromise our position.”

“Did you ever go with him?”

She was watching him cautiously, clearly afraid of him. “Once. He was sick with a fever and wanted to be sure he sent the message correctly.”

“What means was he using to send the messages?”

“I don’t know. Email, I think. The time I went with him, we drove to Charleston, West Virginia. He told me he always sent his messages from different places so Adrian couldn’t track us down. But no one ever responded, so he finally stopped. Is that important?”

Xander gave Sam a quick nod.

“Yes, it is. Kaylie, thank you,” Sam said. “I’m going to go tell Baldwin. Do you want to get some rest now? We have a guest bedroom. You can sleep there for a bit. I know you don’t want to go into the FBI building, but they’re going to insist before long.”

“I don’t want to go there.”

“Why don’t you rest now, and we’ll talk about it when you get up?”

She stared at Sam for a long moment, then flung herself across the living room, gave her a rib-cracking hug and said, “Okay.”

* * *

Sam got Kaylie squared away while Xander told Baldwin what they’d learned. Sam was glad she’d asked about Doug’s situation. It just didn’t make sense to her that a man so dedicated to the safety of Kaylie Rousch wouldn’t at least try to save the rest of the girls.

If he’d known about it, that is.

Xander and Baldwin were deep in discussion when she joined them. Baldwin looked stricken.

“What’s the matter?” Sam asked.

“I’ve just put a call in to the department who would have been overseeing the communications from Doug Matcliff. He could have been using a variety of methods, from dead drops to an internal email system we had back then. If he was sending intelligence and no one was acting on it, no wonder he wasn’t willing to come in. He might have thought he’d been cast off, and would be prosecuted. Despite everything, he was FBI and had an obligation to us. He knew that.”

“
Would
he have been prosecuted? He’d left his assignment, sure, but wouldn’t this be seen as a simple abdication?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know what they would have done. We’ve had undercover agents go sideways before. Usually it’s drugs. They’re forced to participate so the people don’t get suspicious, and the next thing you know, they’re hooked. Religious movements can be very persuasive—they prey on the weak, the easily manipulated. It’s not unknown, but it’s very rare to lose an agent this way.”

“It doesn’t seem like it was his fault,” Sam said.

“You feel sorry for him, don’t you?” He wasn’t accusing, simply curious. He knew her well enough to know she sometimes became protective of the homicide victims she autopsied, as if she alone could put their ghosts to rest with the right answers.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m curious about him. Why he would put himself through all of this. He must have thought the punishment would have outstripped all the chances he was taking.”

“From what I’ve gathered, Matcliff was always a bit high-strung,” Baldwin said. “I’ve got a request in to see his military record, to find out why he mustered out. I will say this, he was much too young and inexperienced to be sent into an undercover operation of this magnitude, and he was compromised quickly. Especially if he knew this Adrian character. Maybe he would have been tossed in jail, who knows? Extenuating circumstances always play a part in these situations. But the word was he stopped communicating, and if that
isn’t
true, we’ve got a bigger problem on our hands.”

“Such as?”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Let’s go talk to his old boss, Anne Carter, first. I want to hear from her before I make any judgments. By the way, your friend Fletcher is on his way over here. He needs to talk to Kaylie about Adrian.”

“Kaylie’s going to get some sleep, and we all need to do the same thing.”

“I don’t disagree.” He looked around the kitchen as if he were seeing it for the first time. “Anne Carter’s out in Fauquier County. We can head there first thing in the morning, before we go to Lynchburg. We’ll build from there.”

“Sounds good. It’s nearly 2:00 a.m. now. Let’s plan to leave at 8:00?”

“Works for me.”

“We’ve got room if you want to stay here.”

He smiled, the first genuine happy look she’d seen since they’d hugged at the Hoover Building hours ago. “I have a room at the Ritz-Carlton. All my stuff’s there. And Taylor’s probably champing at the bit for a check-in call.”

“Two in the morning—more likely she can’t sleep, is in the bonus room playing pool, drinking a beer and watching Red Eye on Fox.”

He laughed. “That’s true.”

“Tell her I love her and I’ll talk to her this weekend, okay? And, Baldwin. Thank you. Your help on this is invaluable.”

“You got it.”

There was a soft knock at the door and Thor gave a little whine. A friendly. Fletcher. Sam saw Baldwin out and let Fletcher in. The two men shook hands sleepily. This case was burning everyone out.

“Fletch, the girl’s asleep,” Sam said. “We need to wait until morning. I can make you some coffee, or a Scotch, if you want to hang around, but I’m about to fall over.”

He smiled. “I don’t want to wake her up, but let’s just check in case she hasn’t fallen asleep yet. You know how it is—adrenaline, worry, all that. There’s a big son of a bitch hunting her ass, and she might not be able to sleep.”

Sam shrugged. “She’s in the guest room. I’ll go check.”

She mounted the stairs quietly. She imagined Kaylie Rousch hadn’t had much rest for a while—underneath the bravado, there were lines of fatigue across her face, and deep black pockets under her eyes.

She opened the guest room door. The light was off, and there was no sound. She crept closer to the bed. She’d just whisper, and if Kaylie answered, great. If not—

An arm grabbed her shoulder and whirled her around, pushing her hard into the wall. The air left her, and as she struggled to breathe, she felt the hardness of a blade at her throat.

She began to struggle. Kaylie whispered harshly, “Stop it, right now. I’ll kill you if I have to. I don’t want to, so don’t force me to be rash.”

They were face-to-face in the darkness. Sam stopped thrashing, the air creeping back into her lungs. She nodded. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Let me go.”

“You’re going to help me. Understand? Eden has something of mine, and I want it back.”

Sam’s years of hostage training kicked in. “Of course. Anything you want. I’m happy to help you. But you have to let me go. Take the knife away from my neck.”

Kaylie jabbed harder, and Sam felt blood sliding down her shirt, over her collarbone.

“You aren’t making the calls here. Listen carefully. Adrian will come for you. You’re dead already. Before that happens, I need my daughter. You have to get my daughter for me. Do you understand?”

Sam nodded. Kaylie relaxed for a moment, and Sam took the chance, her right fist snaking out hard. She connected with Kaylie’s chin, and the girl dropped the knife. It clattered on the wood floor. Sam swung her left leg in a strong kick, shoving off and whirling around, but Kaylie anticipated the move and blocked it, then grabbed Sam’s leg and slammed her back against the wall. Sam punched her again, and they toppled, landing with a crash.

Sam started to shout for Xander, but Kaylie punched her in the stomach, hard, and she doubled over in pain. When she caught her breath and managed to stand and flip on the light switch, Kaylie was gone.

She slid down the wall, all the adrenaline leaving her in a rush. A moment later, Fletcher burst into the room. He took one look at her and turned white.

“You’re bleeding. What the hell happened?” He pressed a handkerchief against her throat.

“Kaylie happened.”

“Whitfield! Get up here.”

But Xander was already dashing up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Her neck was starting to hurt. She was sure it was only a minor cut, but it stung. And she felt as if she were going to throw up.

A daughter. Kaylie had a daughter. She was caught in the cult. And Sam was a dead woman.

Xander dropped to his knees beside her as Fletcher rushed off, gun drawn.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m all right.” She was, though her hands were shaking. “She jumped me, stuck the knife in my throat then said she wanted my help. Hell of a way to get me to cooperate.”

“Where did she go?”

“Out the window, I guess. It’s a pretty big drop to the ground, but she was rather desperate.”

Xander helped her stand. She pulled the white cotton away from her neck. “Is it bad?”

He peered at her, lips in a tight line. “You won’t need stitches. Let’s get you bandaged up. Is your hand okay?”

She looked down to see her knuckles were abraded. “I’ll be fine. I’ll put some ice on it.”

Fletcher came back. “My people are on their way. She won’t get far.” He saw her sucking on her knuckles. “You beat the crap out of her?”

“I wouldn’t say that. She got in the last punch.”

He gave her a proud smile. “But you clearly connected with a few. What’s this?”

She glanced where he pointed. The bed was made, and the small stuffed lion was sitting in the middle of the spread. Kaylie had never gone to bed.

Fletcher picked up the stuffed lion. There was a piece of crumpled paper underneath. It looked to be a page torn from a book; the edges were ragged and the stock was much heavier than a notebook. He handed it to Sam. She read the words, made in a childish scrawl across the page, then handed it to Xander, who read it aloud.

“Dear Dr. Owens, I’m sorry. Thank you for being kind to me. I know you’re going to be able to find my daughter.”