Fatal Judgment (26 page)

His cell number was where he’d left it, tucked between the canisters of tea and coffee on the counter, and she tapped it into the portable phone, hugging her coat around her.

“The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try again later or leave a message at the tone.”

Great. Either he was out of range, his battery was dead, or he’d forgotten to turn on his phone.

She pressed the off button. It didn’t matter why he wasn’t answering. The furnace needed attention. Now.

As she set the phone back in its cradle on top of the built-in desk, she eyed the drawers. She didn’t make a habit of snooping in other people’s business—even her brother’s—but if he used this desk to pay bills and keep house records, she might find a receipt or check stub that would give her a clue about what service company to call.

Pulling open the pencil drawer, she found Marty’s checkbook and several stacks of check stubs held together with binder clips. She’d resort to sorting through those if necessary, but perhaps the two side drawers would yield faster results.

The top one was full of what appeared to be brochures, printouts, and newspaper clippings. She sifted through them, noting the headings. They covered all kinds of subjects, from patriotism and punitive taxes to criticisms against elected officials and gun control information.

How odd. She’d been kidding him the other day when she’d made that comment about him becoming an activist. But maybe she hadn’t been off base. For a guy who’d never shown much interest in political stuff, he’d collected an awful lot of government-related material.

Closing that drawer, she checked the bottom one. It was empty.

With a sigh, she went back to the pencil drawer and pulled out a recent stack of check stubs. She didn’t intend to waste a lot of time on this exercise. The furnace needed to be serviced today or she’d be facing a long, chilly night. If she didn’t find a likely candidate on a check within ten minutes, she’d resort to the yellow pages.

Nine minutes later, after riffling through four packs of stubs, she gave up. There hadn’t been a name on any of the checks that bore a remote resemblance to a heating and cooling firm. They were just the usual utility, credit card, and insurance kinds of payments.

The only thing that had caught her eye was an odd notation at the bottom of each check in the most recent stack. Above his signature, her brother had written “without prejudice UCC 1-308.”

What in the world was that all about?

Not that it mattered. Her priority was to get the furnace fixed.

All at once the ring of the doorbell echoed through the house, and she set the last stack of checks on top of the desk before heading back through the living room.

Molly smiled as she opened the door, juggling Jack on her hip. “You left your gloves on the front seat.”

“Goodness. I must be getting absentminded in my old age. Thank you, dear.” She took the knit gloves she’d purchased a few days ago when the weather had taken a cold turn. “I’m afraid I may need them indoors. Marty’s furnace seems to be on the blink.”

Molly wrinkled her nose. “They always pick the worst times to go out, don’t they? We had that same problem last year. The morning of Christmas Eve, of all days. But a friend from church recommended a company to us, and they sent a guy right out. Would you like me to look up the name and call you when I get home?”

“That would be wonderful. Josie’s already complaining about the cold, and I’m not far behind.”

“Give me five minutes.” With a wave, Molly took off, tugging the blanket higher around Jack’s head to shield him from the wind.

As Patricia closed the door, Josie gave another loud
meow
.

“Hang in there, kiddo. Help is on the way.”

By the time Liz heard Reynolds’s car pull up outside the cabin, hope had given way to frustration, which in turn had degenerated to despair. Though she’d tried for hours to free herself, all she had to show for her efforts were raw wrists and a swollen, bruised ankle where the plastic restraint had bitten into her flesh as she’d tugged and pulled.

Failing to free herself meant she’d have to revert to her original plan—try to surprise him by lunging for one of the boards near the woodpile. If she could hit him behind the knees so he fell, she might be able to deliver a whack to his head that would buy her enough time to take his gun and get some plastic restraints on him.

At this stage, that was her only option.

But she prayed Reynolds had left a clue somewhere that would put Jake and his law-enforcement counterparts on his trail. That was her best hope of survival.

The door swung open. Reynolds spared her no more than a quick glance as he stepped inside, a white deli-type bag in his hands, a newspaper tucked under his arm. As he set the bag on the table, the paper slipped and fell to the floor—landing close enough for her to read the headline of the Monday morning edition.

Federal Judge Abducted
Sister Slain in Judge’s Home in October

What captured her attention, however, were the photos. Her official court portrait was prominently displayed—but she focused on the shot of her neighbors. Harold’s arm was around Delores’s shoulders, and underneath was a bold quote:
“He said if we didn’t cooperate, he’d kill us.”

Harold was safe.

She could now attempt her escape without worrying that it would put him in danger. Relief coursed through her.

Tugging off his leather gloves, Reynolds picked up the paper and waved it in her face. “We made the front page, Judge.”

She recoiled, lifting her hands in an automatic gesture of defense.

The next thing she knew, her arm was taken in a crushing grip. His eyes narrowed as he examined her abraded wrist. Then he checked the other one. She tried not to shake as he stared at her with cold eyes that contained not a flicker of empathy.

“You aren’t going to escape your due this time, Judge.”

Turning his back, he sat at the table and proceeded to eat a poor boy sandwich.

Despite her lack of appetite, Liz’s stomach growled. And when he took a drink of water, the dryness in her mouth intensified. If he continued to withhold food and water, she’d begin to weaken. That would make it far more difficult to muster the strength to deliver a blow hard enough to disable him.

Time was running out.

On the next trip to the privy, she was going to have to give her escape plan her best shot.

“How much longer do you want to give this guy?”

At Jake’s irritated question, Special Agent Nick Bradley crossed an ankle over a knee and leaned back in the leather chair in Jarrod Williams’s plush office. “Five minutes?”

That was four minutes too long, as far as Jake was concerned. He narrowed his eyes at the thirtysomething, sandy-haired agent with the all-American-boy look. “Max.”

They’d already been cooling their heels for almost fifteen minutes. Jake suspected Jarrod had hightailed it out the side door when his secretary had called to tell him he had visitors. She’d stalled for a couple of minutes, then shown them to the man’s office with the promise he’d be back shortly.

Right.

No doubt the guy’s delay was a statement. He was doing his best to disrupt their investigation. Practicing what he preached.

But Jake didn’t have the patience for his games. Not with Liz’s life hanging in the balance.

Just as he was about to suggest they start putting some pressure on the secretary to round up Jarrod, the side door opened and a tall, spare man with a full head of white hair joined them. Dressed in a well-tailored suit, crisp white dress shirt, and silk tie, he exuded confidence—and the charisma Mark had mentioned. The man’s attire was in marked contrast to Jake’s wrinkled khakis, open-neck cotton shirt, and scuffed leather jacket. Too bad he hadn’t had a chance to go home long enough to shave and put on a suit. Another reason to let Nick, in his dark gray power suit, take the lead with Jarrod, as they’d agreed on the way over.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. How can I be of help?”

After they shook hands, introduced themselves, and handed over business cards, Nick wasted no time on preliminaries.

“We have a few questions about your Patriot Constitutionalists organization, Mr. Williams. We have reason to believe the person who killed Judge Elizabeth Michaels’s sister and abducted the judge herself on Sunday may be a member of your group.”

Jarrod raised an eyebrow as he took his seat behind his desk. “I don’t advocate violence, gentlemen. If you’ve investigated me enough to know about my organization, I suspect you know that as well.”

“We’re not suggesting you aided or abetted this person.” Nick fixed him with a steady look. “But there are zealots in any group. People who take extreme measures. Perhaps misinterpret directives. What we’d like to know is whether you think anyone who belongs to your group might be capable of the kind of violence that’s been perpetrated against the judge and her sister.”

Resting his elbows on his desk, Jarrod steepled his fingers. “It’s not a group in the sense you’re suggesting. It’s simply a loose collection of individuals who happen to believe, as I do, that our government needs reforming. I keep no membership roster. People may come and go as they choose without making any sort of commitment.”

“But I’m sure you’re familiar with the regulars,” Nick pressed, maintaining an even tone. “And I would think you’d know whether any of them have a propensity toward violence.”

“I’m sorry, Agent”—he referred to the card on his desk—“Bradley. When people come to my meetings, I promise them their presence will be known only to me and them. I can’t violate their trust.”

Jake stepped in, fixing the man with an intent look as he leaned forward. “Mr. Williams, let me put it this way. We have one murder on our hands already. We don’t want another one. But that’s what we’ll have if we don’t get some helpful information quickly.”

For several moments Jarrod regarded him, his expression cool and unflinching. “Perhaps you could tell me why you think someone in my organization is involved.”

They’d anticipated that question. Drawing a copy of the kidnapper’s letter out of the portfolio on his lap, Nick handed it over in silence.

A frown appeared on Jarrod’s brow as he read it.

“I’m sure you recognize the sovereign citizenship language,” Jake said when he finished.

Passing the letter back to Nick, Jarrod once more steepled his fingers. “Many of those thoughts do represent principles of current-day patriots. But as I noted before, I don’t advocate violence. There are peaceful means to achieving our ends. I would never condone murder or kidnapping.”

“A misguided follower who’s checked out other sovereign citizen groups on the Net might believe that’s the next step in the professed battle to save America,” Nick countered.

Jarrod lifted his hands palms up and shrugged. “What can I say? It’s possible. But I can’t take responsibility for someone who’s chosen to resort to extreme measures.”

They were getting nowhere.

“Where were you on Sunday between the hours of 11:00 and 1:00, Mr. Williams?” Nick asked.

The question seemed to surprise the older man. “Am I a suspect?”

Nick countered with a question of his own. “Do you have an objection to telling us your whereabouts?”