When Shadows Fall (29 page)

MONDAY

“In faith there is enough light for those who want to believe and enough shadows to blind those who don’t.”

—Blaise Pascal

“Faith in the Mother is the only true path. Those who do not believe will not be chosen to move on, will not see my love in heaven.”

—Curtis Lott

Chapter
60

Fairfax County Hospital

LAST MONTH, IT
had been Fletcher visiting Xander in the hospital. Now the tables were turned, and Sam and Xander waited outside Fletcher’s room. She heard him arguing with the doctor, and it made her heart leap with happiness.

Xander saw her smile, squeezed her hand with his left. His other arm was in a right-angled splint cast that went over his elbow. He’d ended up not needing the plate and screws she expected. Even Thor had gotten a few stitches. He was at the vet, relaxing after a quick knockout to sew his snout back up.

Everyone around her was so battered and bruised, it didn’t seem fair that she was unscathed.

The media were having an absolute field day, though they were being supportive of the FBI’s actions because Rachel Stevens had been found alive, unharmed, along with five other women of varying ages who had gone missing over the years. Every television station was running footage of the scene in front of the Stevens home, where Rachel had been restored to her parents. The national media were scrambling to get reporters in all the cities to speak to the parents of the girls who’d gone missing over the years.

The faces of those missing girls were being kept from the public while their families were told in private of their recovery. Three couldn’t wait to get home, but two had refused to go and insisted on staying with Eden.

The final count was five dead, all men. Four were guards protecting the perimeter, and the fifth was Adrian, down in the cave. Two women were still in critical condition with third-and fourth-degree burns, and thirteen more of various ages and injury had been treated and released.

Lauren had been hurt badly. Fletcher’s bullet caught her in the shoulder and she’d landed awkwardly when she fell from the tree, breaking both legs. She was being held in the prison ward of the hospital. She’d shot a police officer, and was going to be in jail for a long time.

Curtis Lott was telling all sorts of tales, magnanimously praising the FBI for their actions in freeing her people from the tyrannical clutches of the madman, Adrian. She claimed she was a peaceful preacher, only doing what was best for her flock.

Eventually a jury would decide her fate. After a night of interviews, she’d made her first appearance in federal court, and a bail hearing had been scheduled in three days’ time. Sam truly hoped she’d be kept behind bars. She couldn’t imagine this woman walking free, out on bail, but anything could happen.

Curtis Lott was a sudden anticelebrity, the object of scorn and derision and fascination across every news outlet in the country.

What was even more worrisome, while Xander was getting X-rayed and casted the previous night, Sam had gone to visit Kaylie, only to be told she’d checked herself out against doctor’s orders and was nowhere to be found.

Sam didn’t know if they would ever have all the answers she wanted. June Davidson was working on tracing every detail surrounding Doug Matcliff’s life in Lynchburg, but there were holes in his story, holes so big and deep it seemed unlikely they’d ever get the whole truth.

They needed time to unravel everything, to put all the pieces together, to have it all make sense. She knew one thing—she was going to be on her guard until Kaylie resurfaced.

The doctor huffed out of the room, followed by Fletcher, wearing clean clothes. She wondered for a minute how, then saw Jordan bringing up the rear, a hospital bag in her hand.

She saw Sam and waved. “Talk to him. He refuses to stay, refuses a wheelchair. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

Fletcher turned and saw Sam and Xander sitting in the chairs outside his room. He went to Sam, pulled her to her feet and kissed her on the lips. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You saved my life.” He slapped Xander on his good shoulder. “I’d hug you, too, if it wouldn’t hurt us both. Where’s Thor? I need to kiss that dog, too.”

“Jordan’s right, Fletch. You’re clearly out of your mind. You need to stay,” Sam said. But she was grinning. He was okay. She’d saved him.

“We’re not done. This case isn’t finished. We need to get the rest wrapped before things fall apart. Let’s roll.”

He took two steps and his legs buckled. He started to go down. Sam and Jordan caught him, got him into the chair Sam had been sitting in. He was pale but began to laugh.

Sam touched the bandage on his neck. It was much bigger than her own. “Slow down there, cowboy.”

“Okay, maybe I need that wheelchair, after all.”

Jordan shook her head and went to get the nurse.

“You should stay another day, Fletch. Maybe I didn’t stitch you up tight enough. Your blood pressure could drop. You could throw a clot. It’s better for you to stay in bed, rest.”

“You did it all right and you know it. I trust you more than these yahoos. Nurse showed up in the middle of the night, woke me up and said it was time for my enema. She had the wrong freaking room. I just want out.”

“Okay. We’ll get you out. What did you mean, the case isn’t finished?”

“June Davidson called me. He hasn’t called you yet?”

Sam shook her head.

“You can stop fretting about why Doug Matcliff contacted you. It was Rolph Benedict. He sent the letter. He was under instructions to put the game into play if Doug ended up dead. I don’t think he knew he would be a target, as well.”

“Fletch, you aren’t talking sense. Slow down, breathe and explain.”

“All right. Davidson got into Benedict’s computer. Mac Picker wasn’t lying. He didn’t have Savage’s, or Matcliff’s, will on the firm’s computers.”

“So Doug Matcliff didn’t make a will?” Sam asked.

“He did, but Benedict did it for him. Privately. According to Benedict’s notes, Matcliff was sick. Leukemia. He didn’t have long, and he must have decided it was time to set things right.”

“So who killed him?”

“It must have been Adrian. There was a note in Matcliff’s file. It said, ‘I’m coming for you. Don’t make me kill you. Do the right thing.’”

Sam shook her head. “Adrian whispered something to me as he died. He said he didn’t kill Doug.”

“I don’t know what to believe. We’ll have to keep on it, try to solve the case.”

“But Doug knew he was going to be killed. He must have assumed Adrian was coming for him.”

“Someone certainly was.”

“Did Benedict’s notes say why he picked me, Fletch? Why not just go to the police, or the FBI?”

“Davidson said there was a copy of the article
Washingtonian
did after the subway murders in Benedict’s files. Your name was featured prominently. He admired and trusted you.”

“He didn’t even know me,” she said.

But Xander nodded. “He knew your character. Sometimes that’s all a man needs to make a judgment. And look. You did the right thing by Matcliff, like he knew you would.”

Jordan came back with the wheelchair, and a harried brunette nurse.

“You!” Fletcher said in mock horror.

The nurse blushed. “I said I was sorry.”

They all laughed, and followed Fletcher and the nurse out into the pickup area. They got him situated in the front seat of Jordan’s car.

“I’m taking you home,” Jordan said.

Fletcher shook his head, wincing a little as his bandages pulled. “I’m hungry. They haven’t fed me anything but Jell-O. Sam, Xander, meet us at the Hawk ’n’ Dove. I want a burger.”

“I want a nap,” Jordan said. “And I think you should have one, too.”

He smiled at her. “Food first. We need to decide the best way to take Mac Picker’s law firm down for good.”

* * *

Sam followed Jordan out of the hospital grounds, breathing a sigh of relief.

Xander put his good hand on her leg. “You okay?”

Sam picked up her phone, which she’d left in the car to charge. “I want to talk to Davidson myself.”

Davidson answered on the first ring.

“Dr. Owens. Good to hear from you. I left you a message earlier. Sorry if I was cryptic.”

“I didn’t get the message, June, I’m sorry. What was it?”

“Did Fletcher tell you about what I found on Benedict’s computer?”

“Yes. He said Benedict targeted me directly because of the
Washingtonian
article.”

“Yes, that’s right. We’ve been combing his house, his computer, his accounts. We’ve found a letter in Benedict’s things, addressed to you, marked private. He mailed it to himself from D.C. the night you met. Do you want me to send it to you?”

“Read it to me, would you?”

“Sure.”

She put the phone on speaker so Xander could hear, as well.

“Dear Dr. Owens,

If you’re reading this letter, I certainly hope you’ll forgive me. And if you have no idea what I’m about, allow me to explain. There is an illicit adoption ring being run out of the law offices where I work. All the partners are involved, and the Hoyles, as well. They house the children when they arrive in Lynchburg.

When I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s I knew it was time to leave trial law. I signed on as partner with Mac Picker, an old friend. One of the aspects of the firm was private adoptions. After the horrors I’ve seen, I was pleased to work on something loving, and happy.

The Stevenses were my first adoption. There were many more since, all of which I’ve documented at great length in my private files. I can’t tell you exactly when I became suspicious of the vast number of adoptions, but it was a few years after I joined the firm. I eventually began asking questions, and when no good answers were forthcoming, I did some digging myself.

Before I could figure it all out, Doug Matcliff came to me. He knew I was a partner in the firm. He also knew I was bound by attorney-client privilege not to share his story.

I must, in good conscience, break my vows and do just that.

Matcliff claimed he was dying, and wanted to come clean about his role in the adoption scheme. He wanted it to end, but didn’t know how. I don’t know if I believe he was sick. I do believe he was a man haunted, who was making some very serious decisions about his future.

And then he was dead, and I grew concerned for my own well-being.

I am writing this down in case something happens to me before I have a chance to set things right for Douglas, and with the firm. I hope it is enough to bring an end to the atrocities we’ve committed. We are both guilty. I hope, with this letter, we can at last be shriven.

Yours,

Rolph Benedict, Esquire”

Davidson stopped talking. Sam went silent for a moment. “Wow.”

“Exactly. There’s a lot of information here in his files, but I don’t know whether it’s going to hold up in court. We’ll try. I’m having the State’s Attorney General open an investigation to see if what he says is true. If there’s enough evidence, we’ll take it to the grand jury, get Mac Picker, his partners, Stacey Thompson and Tony Green, and everyone else involved indicted.”

“It’s true. And you may have to fight off the feds for jurisdiction.”

“I’m aware. Right now all we have is Benedict’s word. We’re going to need proof. Lots and lots of proof.”

“I hear you. I’ll get back to you, June. How’s Ellie Scarron?”

“She’s going to make it, thanks to you.”

“Good to hear. Thank you, June. We’ll be in touch.”

She hung up, looked at Xander.

“At least now we know,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Now we know. He’s right, we need proof. The word of a dead man who clearly was compromised by his disease will get them in the door, but Mac Picker’s smart. He won’t have this stuff lying around the office. We need another play. We need someone to talk.”

“I doubt Curtis Lott and Lauren will be willing to provide it. They’ve already said all they have to say until their trials.”

She smiled at him. “I think I have a better idea.”

Chapter
61

Lynchburg, Virginia

FLETCHER DROVE SAM
to the Lynchburg law offices of Benedict, Picker, Green and Thompson, a look of concern etched on his face. “You think I’m crazy for doing this, don’t you?”

“Yep. It could backfire. They know you’ve been hanging out with the cops. They aren’t stupid. On the contrary, these people are so incredibly smart, they’ll make you immediately if you don’t handle this perfectly. If they see even a hint that you’re lying, they’ll kill you. You need to be convincing. More than convincing.”

“I understand your concern. I really do. But, Fletcher, you have to trust me. I have a lot of experience being this particular woman. Firsthand knowledge. I spent two years being her. People looked at me like I was addled in the brain because of what happened. Who knows, maybe they were right to think I was screwed up.”

“You
were
screwed up.”

She shot him a glance.

“Sorry. And I’m sorry for this, too. I gotta ask, sunshine, and don’t take this the wrong way, but three days ago you were shaking like a leaf on the floor of Matcliff’s cabin, rattled to the core because some stranger had singled you out. Are you absolutely sure you can do this?”

Sam was quiet for a minute. She allowed herself a moment to think back to the episode at the cabin. It seemed as if more than three days had passed. It felt like a lifetime.

Something had changed in her. The pervasive panic was gone. She didn’t feel it anymore, lurking around the edges of her mind like a stalking lion, ready to clamp its jaws around her thin, delicate leg, twist her down to the earth and rip out her throat.

She’d spent two years in a fog, barely able to function, to breathe, to think of her family without shutting down, forcing her hands under piping-hot water in punishment. Suddenly the need to punish herself was gone, and its absence was extraordinary.

She touched them then in her mind—Simon, his geeky glasses and floppy hair and crooked grin, the man she’d loved since they were teenagers; Madeline and Matthew, twins who’d shared her womb; the faceless little stranger taken from her by force. Four reasons for living, four senseless deaths.

She waited for the urge to overtake her, but it didn’t.

This must be what they meant when they talked about acceptance. And hope.

She took a deep breath. “You want to know the worst part of losing Simon and the kids? Aside from their permanent absence, I mean? The pity. People pitied me. And damn it, I didn’t want that. I didn’t want their pity, their shoulders to cry on, their casseroles and whispers. I lost my world, and they just looked at me like I was the girl in the after-school special, incapable and sad and not myself. I didn’t become a different person, but everyone treated me differently. This is one of the big reasons I moved to D.C. You, and Xander, and Nocek—you don’t pity me. You understand what I’ve been through without making me feel bad about it. And I love all of you for it. But I am strong and capable and sick to death of these shackles. I refuse to feel guilty anymore for being happy. I’m going to go by the beat of my own drummer, and to hell with what people think.”

The voice in her head stood up and took a bow.

Fletcher’s face broke into a huge grin, making the bandage on his neck shift. “Well said, sister.” He held up a hand and high-fived her, making her laugh.

“You seem awfully happy, my friend.”

“That’s because as of this morning I’ve officially been promoted. Improves my outlook on life.”

“To lieutenant? Congratulations. But I thought you wanted out?”

“I did. I don’t know what possessed me to say yes, but I did, and so it’s happening.”

“What’s Jordan think?”

“She’s really happy for me.”

“I’m happy for you, too, Fletch.” She put her hand on his arm, hoped he understood she was talking about more than his promotion. “Let’s get this over with.”

Fletcher spoke into his comms unit, checked off everyone listening. They were all set. He raised an eyebrow. “You ready?”

Sam adjusted the small wireless microphone they’d taped between her breasts, making sure there was no way anyone would suspect it was there, then gave him a sly smile. “Don’t worry. I was the lead in every school play we had. I’ve got this.”

* * *

Mac Picker ushered her into his office with a look of sheer confusion. She liked that he was off-balance. It had been a perplexing few days for him, certainly, but Sam hoped this little charade would be the key to getting the proof they needed to take Curtis Lott and Mac Picker down for good.

Picker offered her coffee, which she accepted. Having a cup, a prop, would give her hands something to do so they wouldn’t shake.

As cocky as she’d been in the car with Fletcher, she was feeling a few nerves now. This was it, this was their chance, and she couldn’t afford to blow it.

Coffee doctored, she took a sip, then set it in its fine bone china saucer. Picker took the hint.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Owens?”

She smiled, tremulous. “For starters, can you call me Sam? I’m not here in an official capacity. Actually no one knows I’m here, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You see...well, this is going to sound crazy, but I was hoping you could help me.”

Picker’s face softened a touch, and he gave her an avuncular smile. “Help you how, my dear?”

She cast her eyes downward.
Careful, girl, careful.
“This is very hard for me. I have a request of a very personal nature.” She looked up, knowing there were tears shining in her eyes. “Very personal. I’d like to state up front this conversation is so far off the record, I will deny ever having it if it comes to light.”

Now she had his attention. He leaned forward in his old leather chair, the springs creaking under his weight. “If you retain me as your lawyer, everything we discuss here will remain under attorney-client privilege. Would you like to take that step?”

She nodded. “I think that’s a very good idea. It would protect you. Especially considering what I’m about to ask.”

“I see. All right, then. Let me just grab an attorney-client privilege form. Once you sign it we can talk freely. It will protect both you and me in the event there are questions later about our conversation.”

He walked to his credenza and thumbed through a file, pulling out a single sheet of paper and bringing it to her. He was careful not to touch her as he handed her the paper. She glanced at it quickly—it wouldn’t do to look too interested in what it said—then signed her name. He signed, as well, then slid the form to the corner of his desk and sat expectantly in his chair.

“What can I do for you, Sam?”

She blurted out the words. “I want to have a baby.”

He didn’t react, didn’t move.

“I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.” She took a deep breath. “I’m unable to have children anymore. I was married, and had twins, and was pregnant again when...” This time she did swallow hard, then stood and pulled the front of her shirt up. The scar was four inches long, sliced diagonally across her stomach below her belly button. She knew it was dramatic, the edges silver, the twist at the end leaving absolutely no question as to the nature of the wound.

“I was held captive by a deranged man, and he made sure I lost my baby. And that I wouldn’t ever be able to have one again.”

Picker sucked in a breath. “Dear God in heaven. I am so sorry.”

There was no reason for him to know that the stabbing hadn’t caused the miscarriage; it was the stress of being held against her will, the stress of being captured and nearly eviscerated by a madman. That according to her doctor, there was no reason why she couldn’t conceive again, should she so choose.

“Since I can’t have a child of my own, I’d like to look into adoption. With all the things that have gone on since Rolph Benedict’s murder, I’ll understand if you say no. But I overheard one of the detectives on the case when he was talking about you facilitating private adoptions. I certainly don’t want to go through an agency or anything like that. And when I say private, I mean private. I don’t want anyone to know the child is for me, and I want the mother to sign away her rights to any sort of future contact.” She gave him a meaningful look. “I don’t intend for my child to know I am not his or her mother.”

He actually looked relieved. “Oh, Sam, I am sorry. We don’t engage in private adoptions anymore. There are so many legal issues these days with adoptees searching out their biological parents, the lawsuits were becoming more trouble than they were worth.”

She shook her head.

“Forgive me for being forward, Mr. Picker. And if you’re not interested, of course, you can tell me right now, and I’ll leave and you won’t hear from me again. But when I say private, I mean I want this adoption totally off the books. Your name, and your firm’s, wouldn’t be anywhere near it. It would just be an exchange of funds, cash, from me to you. You get paid, and I get the child I so long for. Everyone’s happy.”

“Don’t you have a husband? A boyfriend? Wouldn’t he like to know about this?”

“This is only for me, Mr. Picker. No one else. The way I see it, it’s simply no one’s business. Hypothetically speaking, how much are we talking here? How much would a baby cost me? Fifty thousand dollars? A hundred thousand? I have plenty of funds, Mr. Picker. Mac. Can I call you Mac?”

She could have sworn his face lit up when she mentioned funds, but he was a careful old codger; he wasn’t biting. Not out loud, at least.

“Sam. I understand your predicament, I surely do. Who could blame you, after losing your own babies? Of course you’d want one of your own. There are many firms who do this sort of thing. I can put you in touch with a couple, very reputable, very professional about all this. I’m afraid this simply isn’t our bailiwick at Picker, Green and Thompson.”

The missing “Benedict” hung between them like a shiny ringing gong. The firm certainly hadn’t wasted any time getting Rolph’s name off the masthead.

“Never? You can’t do a favor for a friend?”

“I’m sorry. No.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Are we negotiating?”

He shook his head, the avuncular and sympathetic smile gone. “There’s nothing to negotiate. I don’t do this sort of thing. It’s not proper. I’m very sorry, Dr. Owens. Sam. I’m not the right lawyer for you, and we’re not the right firm for you.”

“If we could just talk a bit more about this, Mr. Picker.”

His voice was cold and distant. “I’m afraid I have another meeting. I think it’s time for you to leave now.”

Damn it. She’d lost him. Something she’d said must have tipped him off.

He stood, and bent over his desk, pulling a yellow Post-it note from behind the phone. “Good day to you, ma’am. I hope your drive back to D.C. is pleasant.”

He wrote something on the Post-it, then folded it and reached a hand out to shake. She stood, as well, and accepted his hand.

He pressed the paper into her palm, then dropped his hand as if burned. He grinned at her then, and showed her to the door.

She couldn’t wait to get out of the office. She stepped down the wide graceful stairs to the sidewalk, wiped the sweat from her brow. The mike was sticking to her skin in a most unpleasant way. He must have suspected he was being taped, was very careful not to say anything that could implicate him or the firm. But he was greedy. She’d seen it in his eyes. He wanted the cash. Maybe he was going to use it to sneak away; maybe he was playing her. Who knew? They’d have to be very careful going forward.

She waited until she heard the door close behind her to check the note he’d given her. She unfolded the small square of yellow paper and felt her heart leap.

$250k, cash, today by 5. Drop at Hoyle’s.

They had him.