Forgotten (24 page)

TWENTY-SIX

P
ortia stood next to Livy Bach while the crime scene techs continued their careful work, uncovering the latest victim. One small sneaker jutted through the soft dirt and the sight of it broke Portia’s heart. She dreaded the moment when the face would be uncovered, sickened by the thought that she would recognize it. She hadn’t heard back from Jim, so she felt relatively certain it wasn’t Finn. But just as certainly, she knew it would be someone who’d been at the table with them the previous night, eating pizza and celebrating their victory.

“Jesus, he’s escalating at too fast a rate,” Livy muttered under her breath. “What do you think is spurring him on?”

Portia couldn’t respond. Her mouth felt frozen, her tongue powerless to speak. She prayed whatever random prayers came into her head, begged a merciful God that the face hidden by the dirt would be unknown to her. Yet even as she prayed, she knew that this latest victim was meant for her, not for Sheldon Woods.

The techs were almost forty-five minutes into their task when one of them called for a light. A beam was shined into the channel that had been dug, and Portia had to force herself to look.

“Take him out carefully,” the assistant from the ME’s office said. “See if he has anything on him we can use to identify him with.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Portia heard herself say. “I know who he is.”

Her hands were shaking and it took her several tries to dial the number on her cell phone. When Jim picked up, he said, “I was just coming inside to call you back. Justin McAfee is missing.”

“I know,” she said softly. “We just found him.”

It was a full minute before he could respond. When he did, he merely asked, “Are you sure? You’re positive?”

“I saw him” was all she could say without breaking down.

“Jesus,” he said, his voice trembling. “What do I tell Finn?”

“Right now, you don’t tell him, or anyone else, anything. Let the police contact the family. For now, all you can do is hug your nephew and keep him close tonight.” She thought for a moment, then added, “Tonight and every night until we find the killer.”

“There’s a group of volunteers forming in the neighborhood to go look for Justin. Dani is getting ready to go out and join them.”

“Let her go, Jim. Let the police handle this. Justin’s family needs to be told in the right way.”

“The right way?” he asked. “What’s the right way to tell someone their child has been murdered?”

When she could not respond, he said, “Keep in touch, Portia.”

“I will,” she said before she realized he’d already hung up.

She walked back to the site. “Keep digging,” she told the techs, even though something told her that no other body had been buried in this spot. It was too much of a coincidence that Sheldon Woods would have buried one of his victims, ten or twelve years ago, in the very park where Portia had watched Jim’s nephew and his friends play ball.

This was personal. This one was meant for her.

She walked to the far end of the park and leaned over, retching until her throat hurt. When she thought she had control, she took her phone from her pocket and called Jim back.

“The restaurant where we ate last night with the kids,” she said. “What was the name of it?”

“Torro’s Pizza.”

“He was watching last night. He had to have seen us there, had to have seen the boys.” She swallowed hard, unable to put into words that the killer had seen Justin talking to Portia. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself ruffling the boy’s hair, and wished she could go back to that moment, and not touch him. Not speak to him. She pushed the wish from her mind. “Maybe Torro’s has a security camera.”

“Good idea.”

“Only if he’s on it.”

When she returned to the site, she asked the local chief of police if he’d send someone to Torro’s to ask about a camera and to obtain the tape if one existed. He dispatched an officer immediately.

“We don’t have things like this happening,” the chief told Portia, anger radiating off him in waves. “Guess I won’t be able to say that anymore.”

He smacked a fist into his open palm.

“God help this guy if I find him before you people do.” He was almost growling. “I want a few minutes alone with him.”

“You’ll have to get in line, Chief,” she told him.

“You really think there’s another body in there?” he asked.

“There has been every other time,” she told him. “This time, I don’t think so, but we need to be sure.”

She walked away before he could ask her what made this time different.

T
he ME arrived and transported the body. It had been all Portia could do not to touch the boy’s sweet face as he lay on the ground.

She left without even telling Livy she was going. She knew Jim’s street address and knew the town was a small one. She figured she could find his house easily enough. She had to apologize for bringing this terrible thing to his door, for tainting their relationship. She slowly turned onto his street. There was a crowd gathered in the front yard of a house near the corner. She knew why they were there, and she looked straight ahead, searching the mailboxes for the number of the house Jim shared with his sister and his nephew.

She found his car parked in the driveway of a 1920s-style four-square with a wide front porch. A row of holly trees grew along the drive, and beyond the Jag, a small compact was parked near a two-story garage. Portia parked out front, and when she reached the front door and raised her hand to ring the bell, she saw that her hand was trembling.

“It’s because of me, you understand that, right?” she told Jim when he came to the door. “Annie said the killer might be trying to get my attention and I brushed her off because it was too terrible to think about. I should have thought it through.”

“Portia, for God’s sake, come inside.” He took her arm and led her into the front room.

“I didn’t think it through. I never should have been around those boys. He saw me with Justin…he was watching and he saw me…”

“Don’t do this to yourself.” Jim shook her gently. “You’re not responsible for what this man did.”

Dani came down the steps from the second floor.

“You brought this here?” she asked. “This happened because of you?”

“Dani, stop,” Jim said. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“You knew about this killer and her involvement with him, and you brought her around my son?” White with rage, Dani faced her brother. “It could have been Finn. You’re supposed to be protecting us, and you bring a child-killer into our lives.”

She turned to Portia and started to say something, but instead shook her head and turned back to her brother. “I’m going back to stay with Jeanette tonight. The police just left. Her husband’s traveling and they haven’t been able to get in touch with him. I told her I’d stay with her until he gets back. Finn’s asleep in his room. He doesn’t know about Justin and I don’t want him to know until I can tell him myself.”

She brushed past Portia and went through the front door.

“She’s right, you know.” Portia’s eyes met his. “He’s been watching me, so he knows about you. He’s watched you, so he knows about Finn.”

Jim reached for her but she backed away.

“He was going to go from me to you to Finn. Somehow, he got Justin instead.”

She turned toward the door. He tried to stop her, but she pushed him away. “Danielle is right. I brought this here.” She shoved past him and went out the open front door.

“Portia, don’t leave.” He followed her to her car.

“Stay with Finn, Jim. Don’t let him out of your sight. This isn’t over yet. He’s still out there. If he’s followed you, he knows how to find Finn.” She shook off his hands. “I need to find him first.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

N
ow, this is more like it.

He smiled happily as he opened the morning paper and spread it across the kitchen table.
PARKER BOY FOUND MURDERED
!
FBI SAYS COULD BE CONNECTED TO OTHER RECENT HOMICIDES
!

Oh, yeah, this was good. This was
real
good.

He turned on the local network affiliates, and was pleased to see that the story was breaking everywhere at the same time.

See, all I needed was the right plan. I was right on target this time, wasn’t I? Make it personal to her, and all of a sudden it’s big news.

He wished he’d thought of it sooner.
But hey, it’s the end result that counts, right?

He turned back to his favorite morning show and reveled in the coverage. Then on to the cable stations, where he watched and listened and felt really good about himself for the first time in a long time.

“And you thought I’d never do anything noteworthy,” he said aloud. “Well, I’ve got ’em taking note now, don’t think that I don’t.”

He read through the newspaper one more time, then folded it over and dropped it on a chair. He’d need it for his scrapbook. The news had concluded its run and the morning shows were coming on. He went from channel to channel, but the coverage had shifted to a fire in California.

“Fame is fleeting,” he said with a sigh. “Is that all there is?”

He remembered a song with that name, and for the first time, understood the letdown of getting what you want and finding that it wasn’t enough. Even though it all played out just as he’d planned, it just wasn’t enough.

The high was already fading, and he realized that, like all junkies, it was just a matter of time before he’d need another hit.

TWENTY-EIGHT

N
eal Harper sat alone in the interrogation room, his eyes darting around, looking for a way out. Portia watched through the one-way glass, thinking maybe they should let him sit and worry for a little longer.

Or maybe not. She was just too tired this morning, too heartsick to play games with the likes of him. Livy had called to let her know she had found Keith Patterson and was having him brought in. No one had been home at Eloise Gorman’s but they had someone watching her house and would escort her in once she showed up.

“She’s not going to be happy,” Portia told Livy.

“That upsets me no end,” Livy replied drily. “I’ll get back to you as soon as we find her.”

Portia put Eloise Gorman from her mind and went in to the small room where Neal Harper was busy staring at his folded hands.

“This was your idea, right?” His eyes shifted to stare at her. “Bring me in here, get me all rattled. Take my computer, my fucking notes. What the fuck, lady? I already told you, I don’t know a thing about those dead kids. I think it’s a shame, sure I do. But I didn’t have anything to do with it. And that’s all I’m saying until my lawyer gets here. Just remember, when this is over, and I’m suing your ass for invasion of privacy and false arrest and for confiscating my personal property and for…”

“Two words, pal:
governmental immunity.
” She sat down opposite him. “I’m just trying to figure out why a guy like you—a smart guy—would choose a loser like Sheldon Woods to write about. Why would you waste your valuable time on someone like him?”

Portia’s tapping fingers were the only outward sign of her impatience and annoyance at having to spend any more time in the same room as Harper. “All the people a smart guy could choose to write about, why would you decide that Sheldon Woods was your best ticket to fame and fortune? I just don’t get it, Harper.”

“I told you. No one else got the whole story from him. Just me. I’m the only person he told it all to.”

“How’d that come about, by the way?” She kept her gaze trained on him, but he would not meet it. “How’d you get interested in him in the first place?”

“I heard about him from the time I was a kid. They were always talking about him out at Black Horse Farm. About how this kid was a really good rider and was going to go on to jump in shows and stuff but he just left one day and never came back. And then like twenty years later they heard he was arrested for killing little kids.”

“Black Horse Farm?” The name hadn’t appeared in anything she’d read about Woods in the past.

“It was a riding stable near where my grandparents live,” he told her. “I used to stay with them in the summer when I was a kid and one of the things they let me do was take riding lessons at this farm down the road from them.”

“Sheldon used to ride there?”

Harper nodded. “All the instructors said he was a natural, started taking lessons when he was real little, like five or six. Like he could ride any horse, any style. They talked about him like they thought he was going to be great. Everyone was real surprised when he stopped coming around.” He smirked. “They were even more surprised when he was arrested.”

“Where’s this farm?”

“Windsor Cross, out near Sykesville.”

“Did they say he lived there? How old was he then?”

Harper shrugged. “I don’t know any of that stuff. You’d have to talk to the people there. I just remembered hearing about him back then and his name stuck in my head somehow, so when he was arrested and went to prison, I thought, hey, this could be my big break. The one that puts me on the map, you know what I mean?”

“Did you tell him that you used to ride at the same stable?”

“Sure. That was, like, my in with him, see. That’s why he picked me to tell his story instead of someone else. Like I was his homeboy or something.”

“I do see.” She thought for a moment. “Did he ever talk about his brother?”

“Douglas? Sure. It bugs him that Doug turned his back on him. Sheldon hasn’t heard from him in years. He didn’t even write to him or come to see him after he was arrested and went to prison. Really pissed him off.”

“How about his other brother?”

“What other brother?” Harper appeared puzzled. “He just had the one.”

“He had a younger brother, Teddy.”

Harper shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

Interesting to leave that little bit of family history out of his story, Portia thought. Funny that no one knows anything about Teddy. If she hadn’t seen his picture, she’d be wondering if Rhona had been telling the truth about having had a third son.

“And his mother? What did he have to say about her?”

“Only that she was one fucked-up old broad. He said when she came into the courtroom, it was all he could do to not look at her. Said he hadn’t seen her in a long time before that and he didn’t want to see her then.” He smiled knowingly. “I think his childhood was real screwed up.”

“He give you any details on that?”

“He never was specific about their relationship, no. I just got the impression that she was real manipulative and relied on her sons a lot. Emotionally, I mean. I think she damaged his psyche.”

“Everyone’s a pop psychologist these days,” she muttered. “Woods was pretty graphic about how he dispatched his victims,” she said, changing the subject. “How did that affect you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did it give you bad dreams, did it make you wonder what it felt like to kill someone? How did he describe it to you? Was he matter-of-fact, mechanical, or did he give you all the nasty little details?”

“You are really going to want to read my book, Agent Cahill.”

“Look, you self-righteous little prick. Little boys are being murdered by someone who wants to be just like Sheldon Woods.” A sudden flashback from the night before caused her to wince, and she squeezed her eyes tightly closed in the hopes of banishing the image from her mind. “Almost like Sheldon Woods. This guy doesn’t mind killing kids—doesn’t object to putting his hands around their throats and strangling them, but he doesn’t go in for the sexual assault part.

“So it’s someone who’s gotten close enough to him to know what he’s done and how, someone for whom killing doesn’t seem objectionable but who views raping little kids with a certain amount of disgust.”

“You think I’m that guy?”

“You tell me, Harper. Are you?”

An agent opened the door just enough to stick his head through it.

“Harper’s lawyer is here.”

“If I’m not arrested, I can leave with him, right? I can go with my lawyer?”

Portia made a sweeping gesture toward the door. “Be my guest.”

“When do I get my computer back?”

“Someone will let you know.”

“I’m going to tell my lawyer to sue you if I don’t have it back by noon today.”

“Good luck with that.”

She went to her office and looked up Black Horse Farm on the computer. It was still in operation, its website proudly proclaiming that it had been owned by the same family for over sixty years.

Perfect. She dialed the number and explained the nature of her call.

“I’d like to speak with someone who taught children’s classes about…” She did some quick math in her head. “Anywhere from thirty-five to forty years ago.”

“You want to talk to Miz Cawley. She’s been teaching the kids’ classes for longer than that.”

“She still gives lessons there?”

“Sure.”

“How can I get in touch with her?” Portia asked.

“She’s teaching a class right now, but you can leave your number and I can have her call you when it’s over.”

Portia repeated her cell and office numbers and hung up, hoping that Miz Cawley would call back soon. It was the first link she had found to Sheldon’s past that consisted of someone who wasn’t related to him. It was also a bit of information that hadn’t turned up before, and explained his desire to ride when he could have asked for anything in exchange for his secrets. Anything within reason, of course.

She went into the breakroom for a cup of coffee. She hadn’t had quite enough caffeine yet and hadn’t slept the night before. Jim had left several voice mails for her, but she hadn’t been up to returning his calls. Livy found her there, smacking the side of the coffeemaker in the hopes of speeding its progress.

“No, no, you smack this one with an open palm,” Livy told her. “The one in the second-floor breakroom—that one gets the fist.”

Portia corrected her technique. Within seconds, the coffee began to flow faster into the waiting pot.

“I just got a call that (a), Keith Patterson is in interrogation room D, and (b), Eloise Gorman is being brought in.” Livy leaned back against the counter and watched the coffee drip. “Want me to take one?”

“If you wouldn’t mind taking Gorman, it would help.” Portia sat on one of the metal chairs next to the square table.

“Consider it done.” Livy reached over and took the mug from Portia’s hand and filled it from the pot, then handed it back to her.

“You look like shit, sugar. Almost as bad as you looked last night.” Livy poured herself some coffee as well. “Want to tell me what that was all about?”

Portia swept up some loose grains of black pepper that had been left behind on the table. “The boy—the one they found last night—was a friend of Jim’s nephew. Jim had invited me to one of the kid’s tee-ball games. We went out for pizza. Justin—the boy in the park last night—sat next to me at the restaurant.” She looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. “He made a big deal out of wanting to see my gun. We talked a bit outside, after we left the restaurant. The killer must have been there, somewhere, in the parking lot, the restaurant, the drugstore…” She swallowed hard. “He watched. He followed Jim home, saw where Jim dropped Justin off, maybe, I don’t know. But somehow, the killer got to him between the time summer camp let out and the time his mother got home. Someone got to the kid and killed him.”

“I’m sorry, Portia. I knew you were more upset than I’d seen you before, but I didn’t suspect…” Livy shook her head. “I’m very sorry. I know how you must feel.”

When Portia looked up at her, Livy nodded her head. “I’ve been there—don’t think you’re the only one who feels like their connection with a case led someone to harm. One thing I’ve learned in this job is that I am not responsible for the actions of other people. Neither are you.” She drained the mug and rinsed it out. “I’m going on down to wait for Eloise Gorman. Anything I should know about her that wasn’t reflected in your notes?”

Portia shook her head.

“I’ll catch up with you later.” Livy walked out the door. “Don’t forget you got Keith Patterson waiting on you.”

The door closed behind Livy, but Portia made no move to get up. She’d handled some nasty situations in the past—some while working counterterrorism—but she’d never had a case affect her the way this one had. She was thinking perhaps she should talk to John and have the case reassigned. Livy could front it; she had all Portia’s notes and would do just as good a job without getting any more kids killed.

But what would walking away from a case say about her? What message would it send to John about her commitment? What message would she be sending to herself?

Questions for another time, she told herself. Right now, Keith Patterson was in a room down the hall, waiting for her. She swallowed the rest of her coffee and headed for interrogation room D.

Keith Patterson was tall and rail-thin, with sparse brown hair that was prematurely gray, and deep-set eyes that were so pale she wasn’t certain of their color. He wore a faded blue T-shirt with sweat marks under the armpits and dirty jeans that were too big for him.

“Mr. Patterson?” She came into the room briskly. “I’m Special Agent Cahill.” She started to extend her hand but dropped it to her side. His hands were dirty and scratched and looked as if he’d been in a fight in a bramble patch.

“I’m not sure what I’m doing here.” His voice was surprisingly deep, and he spoke slowly. “Someone wanted to talk to me.”

“That was me, Mr. Patterson.”

“Name’s Keith.”

“Right. Keith. I understand you visit Sheldon Woods at Arrowhead Prison from time to time.”

He nodded. “When I have the dreams. He helps me to know what my dreams mean.”

“What are your dreams about, Keith?” She sat across the table from him. “Want to tell me about them?”

“You have bad dreams, too?”

“Sometimes.”

“You should talk to Sheldon about them. He understands.”

“Right now, I want you to tell me about your dreams.”

“The boys come out to play and then they die.”

“Who are the boys?”

“Just…boys.”

“Boys that you know?”

“No. I don’t know any of them.”

“Why do they die?”

“Someone has hurt them.”

“Do you know who?”

“Uh-uh. No. I don’t see the person who hurts them in my dreams.”

“When you tell Sheldon about them, what do you say?”

“I tell him what I see. He likes to hear about it.”

“When did you first talk to Sheldon about your dreams?”

“I read about him in the paper. About the things he did. I thought maybe he was the one, the one in my dreams.”

“Was he?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did you get all those scratches on your arms and hands?”

“Picking blackberries.”

“Keith, have you ever been arrested?”

“A couple of times,” he admitted.

“May I ask what for?”

“Stuff.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Looking through people’s windows, mostly.” His face reddened. “Mostly I just like to see what people do in their houses.”

“Most people like a little privacy when they’re in their homes, Keith. They don’t like other people to watch them.”

“I know. That’s why I only look through windows if the shades are up. If people want privacy, they should pull the shades down.”

“Have the police ever talked to you about anything else?”

“They talked to me about some stuff on my computer.”

“By ‘stuff,’ you mean…”

“Pictures of people doing stuff. With other people.”