Forgotten (11 page)

Steve Bennett may have been a colossal ass, Jim thought, but the child he’d fathered had been pure joy since the day he was born.

Jim stood and went back to the box he’d pulled out from a stack that he’d tucked into a corner under the eaves a few years ago. He knelt down and resumed leafing through the files, pausing now and then to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck. In one of the folders he found a notebook in which he’d jotted down some observations during the Woods arraignment.

He’d noted that Sheldon Woods appeared younger than his stated age, which at that time was thirty-five. Blond and slender, with small hands and feet, it had occurred to him at the time that Woods’s victims could very well have mistaken him for a young teen.
Put a baseball cap on him and a pair of jeans, a baggy sweatshirt, sunglasses…he could pass for thirteen or fourteen,
he’d written back then. Parents warned their kids against talking to strangers, but that meant strange adults, didn’t it? Did anyone think to warn against kids who were just a few years older?

“Probably not,” he murmured.

Woods hadn’t liked talking about how he lured his victims, only what he did with them once he had them. The hunt hadn’t seemed to interest him very much; it was the kill that he’d reveled in.

He tucked the notebook under his arm, thinking he’d offer it to Portia. It might give her some in sights. Maybe he’d give her a call in the morning, let her know what he had, offer to bring it with him to Christopher Williams’s memorial on Saturday. Maybe he’d even talk her into dinner after ward.

Jim frowned. What were the chances she’d be without a date two weekends in a row?

He flipped through several more files before coming across one in which he’d listed the names of all the reporters who’d sought private access to Sheldon Woods. Vultures who couldn’t get enough of the story from their seats in the courtroom, they had to get up close and personal with the monster.

He noted the names of a handful who’d gone on to write books about Woods. It had disgusted him then and it disgusted him now that anyone would want to ride on the demon’s coattails, cash in on the misery and heartbreak Woods had caused to so many.
Why are so many fascinated by the dark side?
Jim wondered as he tossed the file back into the box.

The reporters and the crime writers had been bad enough, but then there were the fans—male and female—who wrote to Woods, and the women who showed up at the prison hoping to meet him, drawn by the sick nature of his celebrity.

What the hell was wrong with those people?
He shook his head. He’d hated every minute he’d had to spend in the company of Sheldon Woods. That anyone would eagerly seek out the man’s company turned Jim’s stomach.

The combination of heat and dust finally got the best of him. He closed the windows he’d previously opened in the front of the house, and made his way to the one that faced the backyard. From this vantage he could see the entire back of the property, the old playhouse where he and his friends had played on endless summer nights so long ago, and the swings where he and Peter, his older brother, used to swing Dani as a toddler.

Thinking about Peter caused his heart to hurt, as it always did. He headed back downstairs, welcoming the cool air of the floor below, turned off the light, and closed the attic door.

TWELVE

“S
o what have you got for me, Woods?” Portia leaned back in her chair as the little man shuffled into the room.

“Now, that wasn’t a very nice way to greet an old friend.” He frowned. “How about, ‘Hello, Sheldon. Good to see you again. My, you’re looking good today.’”

“Don’t hold your breath. And we’re not friends, Woods, and it’s not good to see you. If I never see you again in this lifetime it would be too soon. Don’t ever think for one second that my interest in you goes beyond what you can give me.” She watched him maneuver gracelessly into his seat, the manacles making him clumsy. “So I repeat, what have you got for me?”

“Not even a pretense at niceties. I don’t think I like you very much, Agent Cahill.”

“Gosh, Woods, that hurts me. It really does.”

“You’re a snooty thing, aren’t you.” It wasn’t really a question. For the first time, she was aware of his close study of her face. It took all of her willpower not to recoil. “Made me wait an entire day for you to come here, when I specifically wanted you here
yesterday.
All you too-pretty-for-your-own-good girls are like that. Think you can have your way with anyone, anytime you like. As if anyone would be grateful for your attention.”

“Well, now, that’s an odd remark, coming from you.” She rested her elbows on the table, a half smile on her lips masking her revulsion. “I thought you only noticed pretty little boys.”

“You’d be surprised at what I notice, Agent Cahill.”

“Like I really care.” She gestured impatiently with one hand. “Get on with it.”

“I want another hour with Molly Blue.”

“I figured as much. And in return, you’re going to give me the name of the boy you buried with Christopher Williams.”

He stared at her, his small eyes darkly smoldering. “Are you stupid, Agent Cahill, or do you just enjoy provoking me?”

“Provoking you is always a pleasure, Woods, but what’s your point?”

“Did you think I was kidding when I said I’d never give him to you?”

“Why not, Woods?” She stretched partway across the table, lowering her voice as she moved closer to him. “What is he to you? Why the secrecy?”

“Do you want another boy, or not? It’s all the same to me.”

She stared at him for the longest time but she couldn’t get him to blink.

“Same terms as last time,” he told her. “Cannon in the car with me, over and back. Immunity.”

“I have one new condition,” she countered. “I want to know who and where. Now.”

“It doesn’t work that way. Not until I get my ride.”

“I’m changing the rules. No name, no ride.”

“My, we are in a snit today, aren’t we? Got your bitchy pants on, don’t we, Agent Cahill?”

“Who. Where.” She ignored the barb.

“You know that if you renege, there will be no more names for you. No more lost little boys for the kindly agent to take home to their mamas.”

“I don’t go back on my word. Talk.”

He sighed deeply. “So now we’re down to trust issues, it seems, and frankly, I think…”

“I don’t care what you think. Name. Place.”

“Oh, all right, then.” He shook his head in a put-upon manner. “Joseph Miller. Outside of Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Nineteen ninety-seven. There’s a farm on Three Crow Road off Route Eight ninety-six where they have black-and-white cows—at least, they used to have them. Behind the main barn is a stream, and beyond that, some woods. I planted tulips right where I planted him.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? A farm on some road in Lancaster where they have black-and-white cows? You call those directions?” She laughed derisively. “Gosh, how many farms do you think there are on any given road in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, Woods? And how many of those farms have black-and-white cows, for Christ’s sake?”

“It’s the third farm on the left, and the cows are very distinctive,” he said smugly. “I don’t know the name for them—the breed—but they’re black with a wide white band like a stripe around the midsection.”

“Striped cows,” she said skeptically.

“You’ll see. Well, if they still have them, you’ll see. I wouldn’t make that up.”

“Oh, God forbid you should lie about something.” She rolled her eyes.

“It’s Wednesday,” he told her. “I want my ride tomorrow or there will be no more deals. Call your boss—this mysterious Fletcher person—and make it happen.”

“See you then.” She rose, nodded to the guard, and left the room.

“And don’t forget Cannon!” Woods shouted to her as the door closed behind her.

I
t had rained briefly while she’d been inside, a short summer shower that did nothing to cool things down but everything to make the day even more humid and miserable than it had been when she left her sister’s house that morning. The thick, humid air smelled of summer rain and hot asphalt. Portia picked up her gun, which she’d surrendered on her way into the prison, and was on the phone with John before she hit the parking lot.

“So can we do it? Can we make it happen again by tomorrow?” she asked anxiously.

“Let me see what I can do,” he replied. “It shouldn’t be a problem, given what’s at stake.”

“The boy’s name is Miller. Joseph Miller. Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Nineteen ninety-seven.”

“Joseph Miller.” John repeated the name thought fully. “It’s not ringing a bell. And I don’t recall any kids from Lancaster.”

“Maybe it’s one you never knew about. One that isn’t on any list we have.” She loosened the collar of her white shirt and struggled to walk, talk on the phone, and pull her jacket off at the same time. “The name didn’t sound familiar to me, either, but I was thinking maybe I’d just forgotten.”

“Not likely, Cahill. Some things you just don’t forget.”

“True enough. But it tells me that Woods doesn’t know who we know about and who we don’t. Miller could be one who fell through the cracks back then.”

“You promised him immunity?”

“Had to. He’s not that stupid.”

“God, I hate to see him skate on all this.” She could almost see John’s face twist with frustration.

“He’s not going to skate,” Portia told him. “We will get him. It will take time, but he’s already slipped up once.”

“How do you figure?”

“The boy who was buried with Christopher Williams. Woods won’t tell me who he is.”

“Has he admitted to killing him?”

“Not in so many words, but he didn’t deny it, either. For some reason, he is protecting that boy’s identity, but once I find out who he was, we can backtrack, build the case against him. Blindside him…”

“…when we charge him for it,” John finished the sentence. “Damn. I like the way you think, Cahill. But how are you going to identify the boy?”

“I haven’t quite worked that out yet.” She un locked her car from fifteen feet away. “But I will. Sooner or later, I will.”

P
ortia rubbed her temples, hoping to push back the start of an oncoming headache that promised to be memorable. Since returning to the office, she’d searched the database for Joseph Miller and was surprised that there was no information on the boy anywhere. She put a call into the Pennsylvania State Police and spoke with a trooper who knew the area where Woods claimed to have left the body and agreed to meet her in Bartsville.

“Which way do you think you’ll be coming?” Trooper Howard Heller asked.

“I have no idea. I have to look at a map.”

“Tell me where you’re coming from, maybe I can suggest a route.”

Ten minutes later, Portia had relatively straightforward directions and an idea of how long she could expect to be on the road.

“Give me a call when you cross over from Chester County to Lancaster County,” he said before he hung up. “I’ll wait for you right there at the intersection of Three Crow Road and Eight ninety-six.”

Portia poked her head into John’s office to let him know she was leaving, but he wasn’t there. She left a message with Eileen, and headed for Miranda’s townhouse. It was already closing in on three in the afternoon, and she had several hours of driving ahead of her. She packed an overnight bag, since there was no way of knowing when—or if—they’d find the body.

She tossed the bag into the back of the car and reminded herself that she was still renting the vehicle.
I’ll take it back next week,
she promised herself.
I’ll do a six-month lease on something—maybe a sedan or a small SUV. Or maybe another sports car. Six months should give me plenty of time to figure out where I go from here.

What if she was unable to find the farm Woods had described? she wondered as she drove. What if the barn was no longer there? Maybe she should have waited before she called the State in, scoped out the area before involving any other law enforcement agency.

As she drove, she spoke to three police chiefs who were returning her calls—their missing boys were still missing, no leads—and called Elena Duffy to give her the information on Saturday’s memorial. She called Will on his cell and asked him for some help tracking down Douglas Nicholson and Rhona Nicholson Woods Lewis Davey.

She put in a call to her friend Larisse Jordan, who worked in the FBI lab.

John called and gave her the thumbs-up for Woods’s early-morning ride and arranged for the same team of agents to replicate their previous week’s guard duties. She called Jim Cannon and left a message with Danielle, who apparently didn’t care for Portia any more than Portia cared for her—why was that? she wondered. She was sorely tempted to ask when he returned her call.

“I found a file of notes that date back from when I first became involved in Woods’s case,” he told her. “I don’t know if there’s anything that will be of any great use to you, but you’re welcome to look through it.”

“No client confidentiality issues, counselor?” she asked.

“There’s nothing in the notes that refer to anything he told me about any of the victims, nothing to implicate him. Mostly it’s just observations on my part, notes I made while talking to other people, that sort of thing. Again, I can’t say that it will help you, but you never know.”

“Thanks. I’d like to look through them just the same. As you say, you never know where things might lead with this case.”

She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Listen, Jim—what are you doing tomorrow morning around, oh, four or five?”

“Ah…let me guess. He’s promised to give you your boy but first he wants a pony ride.”

“Close. He gave me a boy—not
that
boy, he will not talk about that one. It’s driving me crazy, but I have to focus on what I have in front of me. A boy named Joseph Miller from Lancaster County is supposedly buried behind a barn out there somewhere. I’m driving out there now. Woods hinted there could be more in the future, as long as he gets his rides on Molly Blue. He wants the same routine, you in the car on the way out of the prison, you in the car for the return trip, or there will be no more deals.”

Cannon swore softly under his breath.

“I know it’s got to be a pain in your ass, Jim. I’m sorry. I hate to ask you again. I know you’re busy…”

“I have to be in court at nine.”

“Any chance you could…”

“Yeah, have someone else from the office cover for me until I get there, sure.” He sighed. “Sure.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right,” she readily agreed. “I am sorry to have to inconvenience you, but I’m not sorry that the Millers will have their son back soon.”

“I’ll let you make it up to me this weekend. Dinner on Saturday. I’ll give you the notes, you can tell me all about your recovery of the Miller boy.”

“Hopefully, tomorrow, if not today. If we can find the right farm, the right spot behind the right barn.”

“So, what do you say?”

“About what?”

“About dinner on Saturday night.”

“Oh. Sure. Okay.”

“Good thing I have a strong ego. A guy could get a real complex around you. And here I thought we were starting to connect on a whole new level.”

“I’m sorry. I’m distracted. I just heard a beep on my phone and I was trying to look at the number of the incoming call. I asked one of our computer whizzes to see if he could locate Woods’s mother and brother and I was hoping it was him.”

“I thought all you feds had mad computer skills.”

“Don’t I wish,” she laughed. “I do all right, but Will can find things faster than anyone I’ve ever met. He has great instincts, always seems to follow the right thread the first time.”

“Well, good luck with everything. Finding the Miller boy, finding Doug Nicholson and Rhona whatever-her-name-is-this-year.”

“Thanks. And thanks again for agreeing to go in the van with Woods again.”

“I don’t really have a choice.”

“Of course you do.”

“Not if I want to look myself in the mirror.”

“That’s between you and your conscience.” Did that sound smug, she wondered? She hadn’t meant it to come out that way.

“Right.” She heard someone on his end come into the room and leave again, the door closing. “I’ll look for you on Saturday at the memorial,” he said. “If you find something tomorrow, though, I’d appreciate hearing about it.”

“I’ll give you a call,” she promised. “It’s the least I can do.”

She hung up then speed dialed the call she’d missed.

“Larisse?”

“Hey, Portia. Good to hear your voice. I heard you were back with the pack. You planning on staying around for a while?”

“A while. Not sure how long but yeah, awhile.”

“So what can a lowly lab rat like me do for a superagent like you?”

“Lowly, my ass. I know who the power behind the throne is.”

Larisse laughed. “So what do you need and how soon do you need it?”

Portia told her about the lost boy.

“So what you want is a DNA test maybe?”

“Yes, but I’m not asking for a rush on it. I don’t have anything to test against it right now, but I hope to at some point.”

“Sure. Send me what you have.”

“Actually, right now I don’t have anything. I thought I’d ask the ME who has the body to take some samples and send it to you, but I wanted to check with you first.”