Abduction (18 page)

The question
that haunted her now was what Zoe would have been like if Amy had lived.

Watching Zoe picking
at her food, pushing her fork around, pouting just as she had as a child, it
would be easy to believe she was the old Zoe. But she wasn’t.

The child who
was once exuberant, full of life and laughter, sparkle and shine, had been
reduced to living in shadows and fogs of doubt. The child who once craved
attention now hated it. The child who once saw nothing but the wonderful things
life had to offer now saw only the tragic things life could bring.

Because of
Amy. Because Zoe felt responsible for Amy.

Zoe blamed
herself for not saving Amy.

Now she blamed
herself for every child she couldn’t save.

“I’m going to
the cemetery tomorrow. Come with me?”

Zoe shook her
head sadly as she looked over at her mother. “You know I won’t, Mom. Why do you
keep asking?”

“I keep hoping
that one day you’ll say yes. You need to face the fact that she’s gone.”

“I know she’s
gone, Mom. But she’s not in that cemetery.”

Denise leaned
over and touched Zoe’s hand. “It doesn’t matter that her body isn’t there,
honey. It’s a memorial to her life, that’s all. A place where I can go and feel
close to her.”

“She isn’t
there for me.”

“I
understand.” Denise removed her hand after patting Zoe’s gently. She changed
the subject. “I had the strangest customer yesterday. A man.”

“You get men in the store all the time. What’s
strange about that?”

“It was the
man himself. Creepy. And he mentioned you. Well, not by name. I mean he asked
if I had children. We were just chatting. You know.”

Zoe nodded,
barely listening.

“And then he
said something about how much it would hurt to lose the one daughter I have
left and to hope nothing bad ever happens to her.”

“That’s all he
said?”

“That’s all.”

“Just sounds
like someone incredibly insensitive, Mom. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Denise nodded
and her face cleared. “I’m sure you’re right. So what happened the other day
with the Terrance family?”

“I picked up
almost everything that child owned. Nothing.”

Denise
Shefford sighed heavily. “That poor woman.”

“
I know. She had such high hopes, and I wasn’t able
to do a thing.” Zoe pushed the pork chop around on her plate, unable to
provoke her appetite.

Denise reached
over and took her daughter’s hand, squeezing it gently. “You did your best,
Zoe. You always do.”

It broke
Denise’s heart to see her daughter suffer over every child she couldn’t save.
And it didn’t matter how many times she told Zoe it wasn’t her fault and she
wasn’t to blame. Denise would still see it haunt every aspect of Zoe’s life.

“It’s not
enough, Mom. You know that.” She reached for her iced tea, staring at the
condensation that ran down the outside of the glass. “And of course my failure
to help delighted Detective Josiah Johnson to no end. He was just waiting for
me to fall flat on my face. I could almost hear him laughing at me.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t,
dear. You just expect too much of yourself.” She buttered a roll and offered it
to Zoe.

Zoe shook her
head. “You don’t know this guy. He hates psychics. Do you know what he called
me?”

“What?”

“A decked-out
demagogue of deceit.” Zoe stabbed at a piece of the pork chop and shoved it
angrily in her mouth.

“Try saying
that three times fast.” Denise smiled as Zoe nearly choked on her piece of
meat. “Sorry, dear. I couldn’t resist.”

Zoe swallowed.
Hard. “Gee, Mom. A bastion of sympathy tonight, aren’t you?”

Denise dabbed
her lips with her napkin and then spread it back across her lap. “Honey, I
think what you do is noble, but I also think you’re human. You make mistakes.
You can’t always help. As for this detective, who cares what he thinks? He’s
probably just insecure.”

Denise studied
her daughter carefully. “You
do
care what he thinks, don’t you?”

“No!” Zoe
poked at the green beans, avoiding her mother’s eagle eye. “I just don’t like
being insulted.”

“Quit sulking
and eat your dinner, Zoe.”

Zoe glanced over
at her mother. “Mom?”

“What, dear?”

“Do you
believe in God?”

The question
genuinely surprised Denise. Her brows arched. “Of course. What a silly
question. My heavens, whatever brought that on?”

“A friend of the Matthews woman. She refused to
let me help with her missing child because she said that she’s a Christian and
I’m not. That a psychic is like. . .working for the devil or something.”

Denise laughed. “There are fanatics in every
religion in the world, Zoe. Don’t let her views bother you. God has given you a
wonderful gift and you use it to help people. Focus on that, not on what some
misguided woman says.”

“I talked with
this woman. She said that while my gift is from God, the way I use it is not.”

Denise tilted
her head as she studied her daughter. It wasn’t like Zoe to question herself
like this. “You use it the only way you know how. I don’t understand what these
people are trying to tell you.”

Zoe laid down
her fork. “She said that all gifts are from God and that I have a gift of being
able to read or discern what is happening in the spirit realm easier than most
people. But she said. . . because I don’t ask
God
for the information—I
ask the child—I’m doing something wrong.”

“I have no
idea what you’re talking about, honey.”

Zoe sighed heavily. “I’m not sure I do either. It
made sense when Rene was explaining it to me, but the more time that passes,
the less I understand. It’s like if I want to use the gift for God, I have to
ask God. And when I talk to these children, I’m talking to the dead. Supposedly
that is expressly forbidden in the Bible.” Zoe threw up her hands. “I don’t
know. Maybe I need to look into this more.”

“Well, why
don’t you talk with someone who understands this kind of thing? Perhaps our
pastor or something.”

Zoe’s sigh
released some of her tension. “That’s a good idea.” She picked up her fork. “So
how are things at the shop?”

After Amy’s
disappearance, Denise had bought a little boutique and named it after her.
Amy’s stocked unusual clothing and accessories not found in the bigger
department stores. It was a smashing success from the day it opened and was
Denise’s pride and joy. Zoe worked there when her mother needed a hand or when
Zoe needed extra cash. The arrangement worked well for them both.

“The shop is
fine. We just got in a wonderful assortment of fall sweaters from Ireland. Wait
until you see the colors! They’re just incredible.” Every time Denise spoke of
the shop or the clothes, her hands fluttered like a hummingbird approaching a
flower. “And these darling silk shawls came in.”

#

JJ almost felt
like smiling. Almost. They were getting close on the Matthews case, and he was
optimistic that something would break soon and they’d find the. . .what were
the reporters calling him?
The Shadow Killer. Geeesh. You’d think they would
have better things to do than come up with catchy phrases for a man who
snatches innocent little girls off the street and disappears without a trace.

He yawned at a red light. Yesterday had been
grueling; he had
n’t gotten to bed until after midnight. He was up and
out of the house before seven. It was almost ten now. The light turned green,
and JJ edged through the intersection and then turned into the Taco Bell
drive-thru to pick up dinner. He was surprised to find a line. He drummed his
fingers on the steering wheel.

In the course
of tracking Ted Matthews’s past, they’d hit a brick wall called a “sealed
file.” So Edward “Just Call Me Ted” Matthews, aka Theodore Bateman, had a juvie
record. Well, it might be sealed, but that didn’t mean it was inaccessible. He
was going to get a copy of that file and find out what the man had done that
was so bad he changed his name and moved halfway across the country.

His gut
instincts had been right. These were two different cases. Someone in the
Matthews’ house had disposed of Jessica Matthews. Granted, JJ was shifting his
focus from the flighty and unstable Karen Matthews to the secretive Ted
Matthews, but he wasn’t ready to dismiss the idea that they were both involved.

Then there was
the serial killer. Though they’d found only one body, it was tragically likely
they’d find at least one more.

He had been
right on target again. Two different cases, just like he’d been telling Harris
from the start.

While the
Matthews case was progressing, the Emily Terrance case was going downhill
faster than a seal on ice, and JJ felt hopeless to stop it. They had no leads,
no clues, and no helpful evidence. The killer was slick. And he was toying with
the police.

Who was this
guy?

Worse yet,
when and where would he strike again?

chapter
15

Thursday, April 20

H
e
stood in the woods and watched her playing in the sandbox. He didn’t know her
name yet, but he knew she was going to be one of his precious flowers.

She didn’t
look to be more than five or six, with long, long dark hair, an impish grin,
and the cutest dimples. He was particularly fond of dimples. He couldn’t see
the color of her eyes yet, but he would. He imagined they were hazel, or maybe
green.

The mother
came to the door and he shrank back against the tree trunk. She was wiping her
hands on a dishtowel, looking a bit disheveled.

“Lisa!” She
pushed open the screen door and stood there watching her daughter. “Your daddy
will be here soon to pick you up; don’t go getting dirty.”

“I won’t,
Mommy.” She lifted a shovel of sand and turned it, letting it slide through her
fingers. She giggled.

He loved
the sound of it. Lisa. Ah, sweet Lisa. What a perfect name for such a perfect
flower.

The screen
door slapped shut and he was left alone once again with the object of his desire.

#

Zoe had been
awake since just after seven. She wasn’t sure what it
was that had woken her. The alarm hadn’t gone off. The phone had
n’t
rung. Figuring she was already awake, she decided she might as well get up.

After working
all morning with her mother at the store, she did some grocery shopping,
browsed through the bookstore without buying anything, and then headed home.

The moment she
walked into her house, she knew something was wrong. The hair on the back of
her neck stood straight up. Warily, she slipped through the living room and
into the kitchen, quietly putting the grocery bag on the counter. Then she slid
a carving knife out of the block and set her purse down, carefully dropping her
car keys into her pocket.

She went back into the living room, looking for
any sign at all
that someone was
there—or had been there. Nothing. Slowly she made
her way down the hall and peeked into the guest room. Nothing. She
stepped into her bedroom and looked around. Nothing.

She was ready to laugh at herself as she slowly
lowered the knife.

Idiot.
Jumping at shadows.

She turned.

And then
something caught her eye.

She stopped.
Frozen. And then screamed.

#

Stretched out
in his chair, long legs propped up on the corner of his desk and crossed at the
ankles, hands linked behind his head, JJ leaned back a little farther and eyed
the clock. A few minutes after one. He’d expected a call from the D.A. by now.

He reached
over and picked up Gina’s autopsy file. In spite of the advanced decomposition,
one thing had been glaringly obvious. The killer had taken the child’s heart.
JJ felt a cold shiver down his back. Why the heart? Love? Innocence? What did
it represent to this sick mind? He’d sent a fax to Zahn at Quantico with an
update but hadn’t heard back yet.

The phone
rang. Thinking it was someone from the D.A.’s office, JJ jumped for it. It was
dispatch. Another missing child. This time a six-year-old by the name of Lisa
Brandt had disappeared from her backyard.

“Page Casto
for me,” he told the dispatcher, slipping into his jacket and adjusting his
shoulder holster. “Tell him to meet me at the scene.”

Matt pulled up
in his SUV just as JJ came down the front steps of the building. “That was
quick.”

“I was just
blocks away. Climb in. I’ll drive.”

JJ circled the light blue Durango and jumped in.
Knowing Matt,
he quickly fastened his seat belt.

“Anything on
Matthews?” Matt asked as he pulled away from the curb with a burst of speed
that had JJ gripping the door handle.

“Nothing yet.
I was waiting for the call when this came in.”

The words were
barely out of JJ’s mouth when his cell phone rang. He flipped it open.
“Johnson.”

He listened,
giving an occasional “Really” or “No kidding” before he finally smiled and
disconnected the call.

“Anything
interesting?” Matt asked.

“Yeah. Marsha
Bateman, sister to our Ted Matthews, is deceased. Died at age five.”

“Dead end
there.”

“Wrong. She died at the hands of her brother, Ted
Bateman, aka Ted Matthews. As soon as we get back, I want you to place a call
to Ted Matthews. It will seem less threatening than if it comes from me. Ask
him to come in and talk to us. Make it sound rou
tine. Typical procedure.
Want to ask him about his wife; we have a few questions, yadda, yadda.”