A Reason to Believe (14 page)

his eyes from Matt. “He wasn’t trying to insult me,

Aidan,” he murmured. “He’s a skeptic who just got

tossed into the deep end of the swimming pool. Cut

him a break.”

She crossed her arms and looked away, her

mouth pinched.

“Why don’t you let me tell you my impressions,”

Kiernan went on, speaking to Matt, “and then if

you think I’m full of shit, I can get on a plane and

go home. No harm, no foul, all right?” They

studied one another for a long moment.

“Yeah, okay,” Matt answered finally.

“Okay.” Kiernan sent him a small smile. “First

of all, she knew it wasn’t her father from the way

he handled her. There was no familiarity to the feel

of his hands. She knew it was a stranger

immediately. He was far rougher than he had to be,

almost like he didn’t realize she was so much

smaller and weaker than he was.” His eyes looked

distant as he stared over Matt’s shoulder. “And in

most cases of child abduction I’ve been involved

with, there’s some sort of ulterior motive

involved, not just murder. Not this time.”

“What kind of ulterior motive?”

Kiernan’s eyes came back to his. “Sexual,

usually. Some sort of perversion. So many kids are

forced…” His voice trailed away and he shook his

head. “Not this time. He didn’t touch her that way,

not once. In fact, until he had her in the basement,

he touched her only as much as absolutely

necessary.”

Matt schooled his features to remain neutral, but

he couldn’t help but be surprised. It was another

detail never released to the media, that there was

no evidence of sexual assault.

“Okay,” he said. “But if it wasn’t her father, and

it wasn’t sexual, then what was the motive?”

“Figuring that out is your job, Detective,”

Kiernan said without irony. “I can only tell you

what I got from Abby. He was rough with her, but

his touch was impersonal. Until he got her into the

basement.” His expression was pained.

“Kiernan,” Aidan said, her hand going to his

arm. “Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Matt waited, his

eyes on the taut line of his throat, the way a muscle

worked in his jaw. When he spoke again, his voice

sounded raw.

“Part of what I do is relive people’s deaths.

Often, relatives want to know that their loved one

didn’t suffer, or that it was at least quick. Most of

the time, death is a painless process, it can even be

a relief. But this…” A shudder moved over his

shoulders. “She woke up, in the dark, with a

stranger’s hands on her. He restrained her, and fed

her something laced with drugs, and hauled her out

of her warm bed. He forced her down into a

basement where the temperature was maybe forty-

five degrees and the air was thick with dust and the

smell of mold.”

He closed his eyes. Matt saw his lashes

trembling.

“She was already completely compromised by

the narcotics. He didn’t have to be cruel.” His eyes

opened and Matt was caught off guard by the sheen

of tears. “But he was. His hands came at her in the

dark and closed around her throat, and he pushed

his thumbs in so hard on her windpipe he nearly

crushed it. She kicked out, mostly as a reflex, so he

sat on her legs. And he squeezed and he

squeezed…” He broke off, clenching his eyes shut

again.

Aidan’s hand came up to cover her mouth, her

eyes brimming with tears. Matt felt as if he might

be ill.

“It was horrible,” Kiernan finally finished, his

voice strained. “It was also personal.”

Matt was startled. “Personal.”

“Yes. It was definitely personal. For whatever

reason, he hated her.”

“He hated Abby?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“He hated a six-year-old kid?” Matt said.

“But…why?”

“No idea,” Kiernan answered. “But whatever

the reason, this guy really despised this little girl.”

He wrapped his arms around himself. “The sounds

he made, like a dog snarling. And he kept saying,

‘Die, you little bitch, die.’” He shuddered, and his

face lost what little color there had been in it.

“Honey, you’re freezing.” Aidan curled her arm

around him and rubbed his upper arm with her

hand, blinking back her tears.

“I’m all right,” he said, but he didn’t look it. He

was shivering.

Matt got up and retrieved a heavy green

comforter from a shelf in his linen closet. He came

back and draped it over Kiernan’s legs, letting

Aidan tuck it in around his shoulders.

“Thank you.” Kiernan pulled the blanket more

snugly under his neck.

Matt perched on the edge of the chair, his eyes

searching Kiernan’s pale face. He looked

exhausted. “We don’t have to talk about this

anymore, if you’d rather wait.”

Kiernan shook his head. “No, it’s better to do it

while it’s fresh.” He burrowed deeper under the

blanket until just his head was visible above the

dark green flannel.

“Okay. You said he fed her something, and it

tasted funny…” Matt prodded.

“Yes,” Kiernan said, swallowing. “I think it

was a sugar cookie.” Matt flashed back to the tray

of cookies he’d seen on the Reynolds’ kitchen

counter. “But it was incredibly salty. It tasted

vile.” He grimaced. “And then he held her mouth

shut so she couldn’t spit it out. She had to

swallow. She didn’t have a choice.”

“That’s reprehensible,” Aidan said. “To do

something like that to a child.”

Matt agreed. The very idea sent revulsion

through him. “If your reaction is anything to go by,

the drug seemed to work right away.”

“She started to feel it almost immediately. It

was weird, like she knew what was happening on

some level, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. I’ve

never felt anything quite like it. She couldn’t fight

him. He didn’t have to be cruel to her, after. He

wanted to hurt her. And there was something

else… Oh, that’s right. He smelled like candy.

Butterscotch. She didn’t like it. But it was familiar

to her. She’d smelled the odor before.”

“I wonder if there’s any way…” Matt ran his

hand through his hair as he exhaled unsteadily. “I

can’t believe I was about to ask if there’s a way to

jog the memory of a ghost.”

Some of the amusement returned to Kiernan’s

eyes. “She’s your eyewitness, Detective.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately, even if she did remember,

she’d never be able to testify against him.”

Matt’s cell phone rang abruptly, the sound loud

in the relative quiet of his living room. He dug the

phone out of his pocket and checked the screen,

wincing at the piercing quality of the bell tone. He

punched a button and brought it quickly to his ear.

“What’s up, Sheila?”

“You need to turn on the news.”

Matt glanced toward his darkened television.

“Why?”

“Just do it, Matthew. Now.”

Her voice sounded tight and unsteady, and he

frowned as he searched for his remote. “What the

hell is wrong?”

“Turn it on. Channel five.”

Matt found the remote peeking out from under

the sofa, pointed it at the forty-two-inch flatscreen

on the wall and jabbed the button with his thumb.

The picture sprang into focus, already on channel

five, revealing the face of the local news anchor, a

blonde whose name he never could remember. He

stared at the small screen inserted in the lower

left-hand corner of the shot, the remote forgotten in

his hand.

“This video was taken about two hours ago at

the North Park residence of noted defense attorney

Marcus Reynolds,” the woman was saying. “Mr.

Reynolds’ six-year-old daughter, Abigail, was

found murdered in the basement of the home on

Christmas morning.”

Her face faded as the smaller screen expanded.

Matt watched himself carry Kiernan out the

mansion’s front door. Aidan made a startled sound,

and Kiernan stiffened in his peripheral vision.

In the video Kiernan’s head was hanging over

Matt’s arm, and he shifted him higher and the dark

head rolled limply, his face coming to rest against

Matt’s neck. Matt turned his face reflexively to

protect Kiernan from the snow, and then walked

behind a tree, where he was lost from view. The

video skipped back to the beginning and repeated,

this time in close-up. Kiernan’s face was clearly

visible. But so was Matt’s, and he felt cold all the

way to his feet.

“The man being carried in this video has since

been identified as well-known medium Kiernan

Fitzpatrick, who’s been in town for a symposium

on paranormal phenomena being held at the

University School of Science. We have no idea

why Mr. Fitzpatrick was at the home, or what

condition caused the need for him to be carried

from it, but he was clearly in distress. The

Reynolds family is refusing to speak to us, and we

have been unable to reach Mr. Fitzpatrick or any of

his representatives for comment.”

The picture returned to the local anchorwoman.

“The identity of the man carrying Mr. Fitzpatrick is

not currently known. Mr. Fitzpatrick has worked

with law enforcement on unsolved murders in the

past, but Captain Peter Branson, the lead

investigator on the Reynolds case, assures us Mr.

Fitzpatrick is not advising his department. We’ll

keep you up to date as events unfold.”

“Well, shit.” Matt muted the television with the

absent press of a button.

“What the hell happened? Is Kiernan all right?”

Sheila’s voice was strident in his ear, and he

turned and looked down at Kiernan. Kiernan was

looking back, his eyes wide. Their gazes locked.

“He’s fine.”

“He certainly doesn’t look fine,” she said,

sounding skeptical. “And how in the hell did they

even get a video to begin with?”

“Someone ambitious no doubt scaled a wall.” A

beep sounded in Matt’s ear, alerting him he had

another call. He pulled his phone back long enough

to glance down at the screen. When he saw the

number, he grimaced, his heart sinking. “Sheila,

I’m going to need to call you back.”

“I want to know what’s going on!”

“So do I. And when I figure it out, I’ll call you.”

He ended the call and took a deep breath. His

phone rang again almost immediately. “Perfect.”

“Problem?”

“You could say that,” he answered Kiernan

wryly. “It’s my boss.”

Kiernan winced even as Matt jabbed a button,

bringing the phone back to his ear.

“Yes, sir?” he said, steeling himself.

“Bennett.” The clipped voice came through the

phone, derision thick in the tone. “I expect you to

be in my office tomorrow morning at nine o’clock

sharp, at which time you will explain to me why I

should not immediately demand your gun and your

shield.”

“Sir,” Matt said, but he was immediately cut off.

“Do not speak,” Branson ordered sharply.

“Simply present yourself tomorrow morning,

prepared to tell me what the hell you were doing at

the Reynolds’ house, with a fucking psychic, no

less! You have been removed from this case and

told to take some time off. I’ve already had a call

from Internal Affairs—” Matt winced, “—asking

me what one of my detectives was doing on the

evening news. You better pray the local media

does not figure out the connection between you and

this office. If they do, your career is as good as

over.”

The phone went dead next to Matt’s ear, and he

sighed, his hand dropping to his side.

The silence in the room was palpable. Matt

closed his eyes, his free hand coming up to rub his

forehead.

“Everything okay?” Kiernan asked.

“He’s less than thrilled. But then, he doesn’t like

me much, anyway.”

“Why?” He looked genuinely curious.

Matt returned the quizzical look with a guarded

one. “Now, there’s a loaded question, with an

explanation too complicated to go into right now.”

“Ah.” Kiernan didn’t press, but Matt had the

uncomfortable feeling he didn’t need to.

Another strident ringing cut through the silence.

Aidan jumped up from the couch and hurried to her

purse on the dining room table. She rummaged