The Fourth Victim (3 page)

So, yes, it had been Friday.

Was it still Friday?

Was I still in Chandler? In Ohio?

And what about Maggie? Oh, God, where was Maggie? Did she know I was gone?

Was she okay? Had they gone after her, too?

Who?
Who were they?

Afraid to move, to alert any would-be guard that I was conscious, I forced myself to breathe deeply, to think of blue skies and a meadow, the smell of roses, to focus on my abdomen, my center…

It didn't work.

“Help!” I cried.

“Please, oh, God, someone help me!”

I had to do something! I couldn't just lie there and let them hurt me. Or worse. I lurched forward. Wrenched my shoulder.

And got so dizzy I saw stars…

C
lay sent Barry Rosnick, accompanied by the canine crew, out to the skating trail, to talk to people who lived in the area, organize the search and traverse the entire eighteen miles of converted railroad track.

Abigale probably wasn't going to be much help because the sun was out and there was no wind. Besides, there'd been other people on the path and she detected any and all human scent in the air, as opposed to Willie, who would be given something of the victim's to smell and would try to trail her that way.

Once the dogs were finished, if they hadn't found the missing woman, and there was still daylight, Rosnick would send ground crews to search until dark.

Rosnick was an avid biker and familiar with the track, so that helped.

JoAnne Laramie, thirty-four-year-old veteran agent, was dispatched to the home of Deb Brown, Kelly Chapman's receptionist and the last person known to have seen her.

Clay headed first to join the FBI forensic team who were searching the home of their missing person.

He'd been to Chandler many times in the ten years since he'd taken the job with the Bureau in Ohio. The town, with
a population of close to twelve thousand, was the seat of Fort County, and, as such, was home to the courthouse.

Chandler was also the site of a historic fort dating back to the Civil War—a fort from which the county drew its name. The city held a yearly celebration to honor the soldiers, brave men who'd sacrificed their lives. The celebration—a weekend-long series of events, demonstrations, entertainment and lectures—attracted tourists from all over. It also brought in well-known country music stars. Clay attended whenever he could.

He wasn't thinking about celebrating now, however. He pulled up in front of one of the smaller homes in the elite neighborhood. Obviously custom-built, Dr. Chapman's home, with the beige siding and dark brown brick, spoke of understated success. And warmth. In December, with everything in hibernation for the winter, the landscaping on her half-acre lot was still nice, peaceful and welcoming with the paths of river rock forking through the front grass and the year round shrubbery interspersed with gardens that were probably filled with flowers in the spring.

An oasis. He made his way past the caution tape, up the walk and through the front door.

From the soft peach-colored leather furniture in the living room, to the beige-and-white solid wood table in the large kitchen eating area, the home welcomed him with a sense of peace and beauty. There were pine cabinets above and below the granite countertops that framed the oversize sink.

The kitchen island, with its handwoven mats, had two bar stools and a perpetual watering bowl for pets tucked beneath it.

The floor in the kitchen was ceramic tile so a guy wouldn't have to worry about dropping an egg, while the rest of the home had a mixture of hardwood floors and plush beige carpet.

“We've been over everything, sir,” Beth Lacrosse, the agent in charge of the forensics team, said, joining him in the kitchen. “We'll look at her computer files, of course, and do some more in-depth checking, but at first glance this looks like a nice home belonging to a nice woman who has a nice, undisturbed life. There wasn't even so much as a prescription bottle in the medicine cabinet.” Medication use sometimes elicited unpredictable behavior, even if taken properly. “A bottle of acetaminophen, some partially used cold medications, some bandages and antibiotic ointment and that's it.”

Clay made notes as he walked slowly through the rest of the house. The room that obviously belonged to Maggie, based on the butterflies on the wall, the clothes in the closet and the books on the shelf, had been painted not long ago. There wasn't a single nail hole or smudge on the off-white and butterscotch-colored walls. He looked at the drawers, pulled out a couple.

“Check these,” he said to Beth. “Get fingerprints and read everything you find.” Kelly Chapman had just recently gained custody of the teenager, he'd been told. He needed to know more about that situation.

Wearing white gloves and carrying a department-issue plastic evidence bag, Beth nodded and called out to a member of her team.

“Look carefully for any hint of gang affiliation, drug use or anything else that could be a problem,” Clay said. “Got it.”

Clay moved on to the second bedroom—an office with an antique white desk and mauve microfiber couch and armchairs, arranged to face an antique white coffee table. The wood floors from the hall continued into this room, broken up by a large off-white throw rug with mauve flowers.

Beth's team was already in the office, going through
files and disconnecting the computer to take it into the office where they could use state-of-the-art software to examine the hard drive.

If Maggie Winston had a computer, he needed to get hold of that, too.

And then came the master bedroom suite. Clay almost stopped in his tracks as he walked into the room. From the plush off-white carpet to the porcelain tile on the bathroom floor, every step he took felt as if he was trespassing on something so personal that he—

He was being ridiculous, he told himself. He was working. Looking for a possible kidnap victim who could very well be dead. He'd been through people's dirty underwear more times than he could count.

And still, being in Kelly Chapman's bedroom felt like an invasion to him. The woman's home depicted her taste, her love of beauty. But it also represented success. And a sense of certainty, of strength, that was calling out to him.

Shaking his head, Clay moved over to the French doors on the bedroom's far wall. Opening them, he stepped out onto a deck that overlooked a large backyard filled with trees, a little pond with a waterfall landscaped into one corner and flanked by the woods behind it. On one corner of the porch itself was a covered hot tub.

When he started to visualize the woman in the tub, Clay quickly left.

The bedroom. And the house.

He drove straight to the farm outside town where Samantha Jones lived with her husband, Kyle Evans. Clay was as interested in speaking with the foster kid, Maggie, as he was with the deputy, recently promoted to detective, and her new husband.

As he drove, his victim's house played through his mind's eye. Until he realized something. With all the beauty, the artwork, the decorating—even the personal
items in her bedroom and office—there hadn't been a lot that spoke of Kelly Chapman's personal life. No pictures of family. Or friends. No personal photos at all. And no obvious vacation mementos.

He knew, from examining her kitchen, that she liked Diet Coke and ate frozen dinners. He knew she used high-end makeup, though not a lot of it, and took rose-scented bubble baths, but he knew nothing about any relationships or memories she had.

It took him ten minutes to reach the Evans farm.

The fact that it was Friday night, that Samantha and Kyle might have dinner plans, or that Barry and JoAnne had loved ones waiting for them, didn't factor into Clay's decisions. A woman was missing and, if there'd been foul play, every second counted. Statistically, the chances of finding Kelly Chapman alive lessened with every hour that passed.

His phone rang just as he was driving by land that showed the remains of harvested corn. He turned onto the drive that led up to the farmhouse.

“This is Clay,” he said, recognizing JoAnne's number.

“I did some checking, on a hunch, before heading out to Chandler. The farm you're going to, Kyle Evans's place—now Samantha's, too—it's the one that was involved in that methamphetamine superlab bust a couple of months ago.”

Chemicals from the farm had been used to make the meth. And the toxic waste landfill had been found at the back of the property.

“If I remember correctly, the farmer was cleared of any wrongdoing.”

“Right.”

Which didn't mean that he was innocent, only that he hadn't been charged. “Maybe sleeping with a cop has its advantages,” he said, thinking out loud as he did with the
few agents with whom he worked most closely—and most often. The agents he'd trust with his life.

“Maybe,” JoAnne said, then added, “Maggie Winston, the girl in this Chapman woman's custody, was one of the drugrunners.”

Similar to Dickens's Fagin, the slimeball drug lords, aka a Fort County deputy and possibly some Chandler city officials, had used kids to do their dirty work.

“So you figure Kelly Chapman's disappearance has something to do with the drugs.”

“I don't like coincidences.”

“I'm with you there. Check the status of everyone known to be involved.”

“I've got Greg doing that.”

Greg Gilmore, college student, part-timer and researcher extraordinaire.

“Ms. Chapman recently worked on another local case, too, but I haven't been able to track down specifics yet. I'm sure it'll be in her files.”

“Why do I get the feeling that this case is going to have more suspects than we have time to investigate?”

In missing persons cases, time often meant the difference between life and death.

Sometime later

They were there. Shivering, I slowly came to. My eyes were closed. More time gone. How much more?

Cold.

Too cold.

Dangerously cold.

Was it dark out there, too?

Was someone sitting there? Watching me?

Was I dying?

Going to die?

Maggie.

Opening one eye just a crack, very slowly, I let it fall shut again. Nothing. Except darkness.

You have nothing to fear but fear itself.
A client of mine had used FDR's words as her mantra. I tried to listen to them now. To understand. To do what they wanted me to do. I wasn't sure what that was.

Clearly, Franklin Delano Roosevelt had never been an abducted female held captive in a dark place.

Whoa. I'd had a lucid thought. Hadn't I?

Sort of. Roosevelt had been president during the Great Depression and World War II. He'd introduced the New Deal.

Assorted facts ran through my mind. They seemed important….

Except I was too cold to concentrate. Was I going to freeze to death?

I ached everywhere. The pounding in my head drowned out coherent thought. I'd never been in so much pain. Didn't know the body could hurt so badly and still be alive.

Tears squeezed through my closed eyelids when I tried to move my hand. It hit against something and I froze, afraid the noise would reverberate in the silence around me.

Alert my captor.

I was still alive for some reason.

Was someone watching me? More than one someone? I stayed completely silent. I didn't want them to know I was awake.

Why was it so quiet? Shouldn't there be outside noise?

The blockade behind me seemed like a wall of some sort. With excruciating effort I moved my hand along the ground. An inch. Maybe two.

Solid rock. Smooth rock.

And I was exhausted. Just wanted to sleep. Sleep.

If you sleep you'll die.

Had Roosevelt said that, too?

No. That couldn't be.

Think, Kel. Think of Maggie.
That girl needs you. More than she knows. She's starting to trust you. She can't afford to be let down again.

Maggie. A child with so much promise. So much life ahead of her.

I opened my eyes. Both of them.

And waited for them to adjust to the blackness. My face felt swollen. I couldn't tell if I was bloody or not.

I was still bound. Still wearing my skates.

And as I lay there, powerless and terrified, I wet my pants.

 

“Look, I've told you everything I know. Please, go out and find her….”

Samantha Jones's statement was just short of an order. With a raised eyebrow, Clay sat across from the couch the detective shared with her husband, Kyle Evans. Maggie was sitting on the edge of a recliner on the other side, holding a small poodle.

“We're doing all we can, Detective,” he assured Samantha. “Forgive me for saying so, but you're too closely associated with the situation for me to be sure you've told me everything you know. I might find something pertinent, the one clue I need, in some little fact you consider irrelevant.” Clay glanced at the fourteen-year-old blonde in jeans, a T-shirt and tennis shoes who had, as yet, to say a word. Even to ask a question.

Kyle Evans took Samantha's hand. Clay wasn't writing that guy off as easily as his wife and the townsfolk appeared to have done. The guy was too quiet. In Clay's
experience, the so-called strong, silent type usually had something to hide.

Still, dogs were good judges of people and Kyle had a large one lying at his feet.

“I'm sorry,” Detective Jones said, bowing her head and then raising it to look him in the eye. “This is just so hard. Kelly, she's…she's the one who takes care of everyone else. Anything I can do to help, I will. Anything.” Dressed in jeans and a button-down oxford shirt, the woman looked more like a teenager than the thirty-one-year-old he knew her to be.

Clay, who more times than not was spot-on with his assessment of people, accepted her at face value.

“Tell me about this lawyer, David Abrams.”

Maggie stiffened.

“You want facts or personal opinion?”

“Facts first. And then opinion.”

“He grew up here. Graduated a few years ahead of Kelly and Kyle and me. He's always been involved with the town. Has a reputation for being generous. And a sweet wife and four kids with another on the way. He seems to dote on them.”

The teenager, staring at the floor, wrapped her arms around the small dog on her lap.

“The superlab bust was yours, right?”

“Yes.”

“What part did this Abrams guy play?”

“We have no proof of anything….”

“I was kidnapped by the deputy who was running things.” Kyle Evans spoke up, looking him straight in the eye. “He told me Abrams was his partner. He also gave me details on the running of the operation. They'd stolen chemicals from my farm. And were running the lab on the farm of a family friend who'd just died of an overdose. Sam was getting close to finding them out and the deputy
lured her to the farm where he was holding me hostage. His plans were to kill Sam and then me.”