The Fourth Victim (19 page)

“So why is it that you shop for her, but she rejects
enough of your gifts that you make regular contributions to a shelter? And why doesn't she come here?”

I stopped. What the hell was I doing? I knew better than to trespass into emotional territory without being invited. Or at least knew how to do it with compassion and finesse.

Tonight I appeared to be missing both.

“Why is my mother any of your business?” Clay Thatcher was staring me right in the eye.

And he wasn't a happy man.

B
y ten o'clock that night Clay's unexpected houseguest was exhausted. So was he.

He walked her back to her room, checked the place just because it made him feel better and for no other reason. Then he asked that she leave her door ajar so he could hear if there was a problem.

He didn't expect one—at all—but her kidnapper probably knew she was missing by now, and her life was in his hands. He did not take that responsibility lightly. He would keep her safe at all costs.

As soon as she was out of the bathroom and had changed into the sweats he'd given her when she'd arrived at his home that morning, he said good-night. He returned to the table, welcoming the distraction of the overwhelming piles of data. Those he could deal with. Those he was comfortable with.

But the woman in his home… He wasn't comfortable with her at all. Frankly, he had no idea what to do with her.

Had she been needy, clingy, whiny or just plain timid, he'd have known what to do. Known how to help her.

But this woman—she looked inward for everything. For strength. For answers. For truth.

She wanted the truth about things most people didn't even acknowledge. Who cared if she was ashamed of her father? Who wouldn't be? And why couldn't she just bitch about the guy, maybe cry a little, and act like the victim she was?

Watching her probe her psyche, looking for answers, was unsettling. And…strangely fascinating.

Not only that, she'd thought she was going to start probing
him.
Asking about his mother.

His mother was fine. He was fine.

And Kelly Chapman was not going to start finding something wrong with him.

Suddenly he saw lights shining in the front window. Someone was turning onto his drive.

Clay was at Kelly's bedroom door before the car had a chance to get all four wheels on his property.

She was a huddled shape in the darkness of the room. The night-light he'd provided for her was still on, but it didn't illuminate her face enough to see if she was awake.

“Kelly?”

“Yeah?” She didn't move, didn't flinch or jerk, which told him she'd known he was there. She hadn't been asleep.

“Someone's here.”

She sat up and he could see the whites of her eyes.

“Don't worry,” he said quickly, his hand on the doorknob. “It's one of my agents. I recognized the car. I just wanted you to know that there'll be someone in the house. I'm going to close this door and you have to be completely quiet. If you need to use the bathroom, don't flush until I tell you it's okay. And don't run the water.”

He trusted JoAnne with his life. But not with Kelly's.

“You'll let me know when the coast is clear?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

That was it. No complaints. No questions.

And as Clay shut the door he wondered if there was anything Kelly Chapman couldn't handle.

 

The day was coming to an end and there was much to do to prepare for tomorrow. He'd always known his ship would come in. He'd been patiently waiting. There was nothing they could do to stop the momentum. He had no concerns. Only an awareness of the need for careful movement, careful choices. They had emotion on their sides. He had none on his.

People feared death. It was their weakness. Their fear of death made them vulnerable. But death was inevitable. A process that took people to a new and better existence. He didn't fear it. Which made him an invincible opponent.

Tomorrow would come. What would be would be.

By tomorrow night, he'd be sailing away.

 

“You want a beer?” Clay followed JoAnne into his kitchen. She knew her way around. There'd been a time, briefly, when she'd been a regular visitor.

She got them both bottles of beer and, dropping her bag on the floor, settled into the chair Kelly Chapman had recently vacated.

Clay hoped to God Kelly's scent—the scent of the shampoo he'd bought her that morning—had left the room with her. It had been tantalizing him all evening. He didn't smell it now.

“How'd it go with Gary?”

“He's got us covered,” JoAnne said. But she imparted the news with a sniff.

“That rough, huh?”

Maybe he should feel at least a little territorial—should
care that a woman who'd once been his lover was being sought after by another man. His only concern was that JoAnne be happy and safe. Beyond that, her life was her own.

As were the lives of every other woman he'd ever been involved with.

“I've got a date with him tomorrow night and if it goes beyond that, I'm turning him over to you, Clay Thatcher.”

“How come? Smithers doesn't seem the type to fall for someone like me.”

“I'm going to tell him that we're lovers and you're the jealous sort.”

“I don't have a jealous bone in my body.” He didn't care enough about any woman to be jealous of any choices she made.

“But you can't deny we were lovers,” JoAnne said. “I've got proof.”

Pictures she'd taken of him one night when he'd been passed out in her bed. Yeah, he knew. It was a standing thing between them. Pictures he knew she kept because their time together had been special to her. Pictures she'd never use against him. Pictures that didn't matter. He wouldn't give a damn if they were made public. He and JoAnne had been lovers. So what?

“Okay, sic him on me,” he said. Not because of the pictures, but because she deserved his support. Because she was the closest thing he had to a best friend now that his father was gone.

“I've got something to show you.”

He'd known she hadn't driven all the way out here to bitch about Gary Smithers.

“They found this on Maggie Winston's computer and thought we'd want to see it.” JoAnne handed him a printed sheet.

He's big.

He's strong.

He goes where he pleases.

He takes what he wants.

He invades. Grabs hold.

He clutches and squeezes.

He refuses to let go.

He brings pain.

He hurts.

He kills.

He got me.

 

“I called Samantha Jones and had her ask Maggie about it. I thought she had the best chance of getting the girl to talk. Maggie trusts Sam.”

“And?”

“Maggie says a friend of hers sent her the poem and that she didn't even know she'd kept it.”

“Did Detective Jones believe her?”

“No. She said the look on Maggie's face when she was asking her about the poem was the same one she wore the night she and Kelly showed her a picture of David Abrams and Maggie denied that he was her Mac. Kelly Chapman was sure Maggie had convinced herself he wasn't. Jim says this document was created on Maggie's computer.”

Jim, one of the agency's computer technicians, was right more often than he was wrong.

“Does he know when this was created?”

“Just before Kelly Chapman went missing.”

Pieces were falling into place. Clay could feel them. He was beginning to see a clear picture.

“She knows more than she's telling us about Kelly's disappearance. That's why she called so soon, to notify the authorities. She says, ‘He kills.' She knew what was going to happen. And ‘He got me.' The man has enough power over her that she couldn't stop him. Couldn't tell him no.
On some level, she knows what he's doing is wrong. But can't stop it.”

“Sam said Kelly's theory was that Maggie had been so badly hurt that she couldn't see David Abrams and her Mac as the same man. That her psyche couldn't handle the betrayal of her most sacred gifts—her heart and her virginity. She's in a suspended state of reality. If David is behind this attempt to get rid of Kelly, and Maggie knows, she'd be powerless to stop him. She's his slave, chained by her intense emotional need. Yet she cares about Kelly.”

“Which is why, when Maggie was given the opportunity, she went to meet Abrams last night. But why she was so distraught when Sam came to get her?”

“Well, for one thing, he didn't show up,” JoAnne said. “So we have a distraught girl. And a missing counselor-turned-foster-mom.”

“We have a fiend with no conscience.” Clay often thought aloud with JoAnne. “And his one weakness is a teenage girl.”

“You think the only way to get him is through the girl.”

“The only way to get a man like Abrams is to find his weakness and exploit it.” Clay liked his version better. It was about weaknesses, not about a teenage girl. His version was less…tragic sounding.

“You want to set up a second sting.”

“I want to get the bastard tomorrow morning so we can all go home.” So Kelly Chapman could go home.

So she could get out of
his
home. Out of his head. And his life.

And tend to the foster child who so desperately needed her.

“You are home.” JoAnne's dry reply wasn't lost on him.

“If we don't get him tomorrow morning, we'll set up
another sting. The man already has the girl. She'll go to him with or without our supervision. A sting is the only way I can see to save her. At least we pick the time and place, we control the outcome. And we get him.”

“What if it turns out Abrams
isn't
behind Chapman's disappearance? Then this won't be our concern.”

Righting wrongs was always Clay's concern. And if it turned out that Abrams wasn't part of his case… He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

Edgewood, Ohio
Sunday, December 5, 2010

I waited until Clay Thatcher's lover was gone, but only just. I listened as the car drove away and was down the hall before he'd settled back into his seat at the table. Still in the slacks and blue cotton dress shirt he'd had on all day—with his jacket over the back of his chair—the man looked good. Commanding.

He'd saved my life.

And I was so angry I hardly recognized myself.

“Another sting?” I barely managed to keep my voice at a decent level. I wanted to scream at him. To throw something. To stomp my foot and slap his face.

“How could you?” I stood there in his sweats and T-shirt, my bare feet freezing on the ceramic tile floor, and faced down a federal agent almost twice my weight.

Why was he just standing there staring at me? Why didn't he say anything?

“She said a second sting. She said Maggie was with Abrams last night. Last night! While you were telling me that Maggie was safe with Sam, you let her go meet that
bastard?
” I couldn't stand it.

But I couldn't do a damned thing about it. I was trapped.

Helpless. Because if I took a step out that front door, I could be dead.

If I went to Maggie, she could be dead, too.

“I trusted you.” My voice had dropped. My whole spirit was sagging, along with my shoulders. Because I'd lost. And I knew it.

I wanted to cry. To shed all the anguish that came with loving a child who was so misguided. Who was so starved for affection that she'd fallen prey to a pedophile.

Oh, God, Maggie. You don't need him. Don't you know how much I love you?

Of course Maggie didn't know how much I loved her. She gave Mac something in return for his supposed affection; she believed she had nothing to give me. I understood, in logical terms, what was going on.

But I had no idea what to do with the emotions attacking me. They were brutal. And they were winning.

I had to step back. To take the space to choose my response rather than react.

“Your trust is not misplaced.”

Just hearing his voice pissed me off all over again.

“How could you?” I asked instead, more quietly but still with every ounce of accusation I'd hurled at him previously.

He stood there, hands in his pockets, easily deflecting my blows. The man was a rock. Not a human being. Did he feel nothing? About anything?

I remembered my picture on his dash.

And the gentleness with which he'd looked after me in the cave.

I remembered his honesty when I'd agreed to his plan—his admission that he could be acting out of an elevated opinion of his own abilities.

His fellow agent—his ex-lover—had come to him. The tone of her voice told of a long-standing friendship and af
fection. They'd seemed to understand each other's thoughts. She'd said something about their being lovers….

A person had to possess a certain amount of sensitivity to be part of such a relationship.

My legs were shaky. Probably more because of the emotions tormenting me than any physical consequence of my days in the cave. I sat. “I need answers.” A beer bottle with only a few sips missing sat in front of me.

Dropping down to the table by the second beer bottle, one that was three-quarters empty, Clay looked directly at me.

“Time was running out. We had to find you. It's clear to everyone who's spoken to her that Maggie knows more than she's saying about what's going on here. We set up a sting to get Maggie to lead us to Abrams.”

Every time he spoke, I got mad all over again. I just…

“‘We…' Who was involved in this…sting?” I asked before I'd finished thinking about what I should say. “Where was Sam when you were all using Maggie to do your jobs for you?” Not one of my better efforts.

I'd cringe about it later, I was sure. For now, I simply didn't care. Maggie Winston was a child who'd been through far more than she could handle already. And these people…these caregivers, these keepers of the peace, had thrown her to the wolf.

I just couldn't bear the thought of that man with his hands anywhere near that child again. The idea of it made me physically sick.

“Sam was in on it.”

Shock, betrayal, squeezed the air out of my lungs.

“But before you start hating your friend, hear me out,” Clay said. “Everyone knows the precarious state of Maggie's emotional health.”