The Fourth Victim (4 page)

“Except that when I arrived, Kyle tackled the man. The deputy's bullet went astray and I managed to get a round off before he could take a second shot. Unfortunately, my shot killed him so we had no firsthand testimony. But every single detail of what Kyle said checked out,” Samantha added. “Other than Kyle's hearsay testimony, though, there was nothing to tie Abrams to any of it.”

“And your opinion of the man?”

“He's the kind of criminal you most dread. Highly intelligent. Educated. Well liked and well respected. And completely without conscience. I believe the man is a serious danger to this town.”

Maggie moaned, seemingly unaware that she'd done so, her fingers working back and forth, back and forth, in the little dog's fur. Clay raised his eyebrows, glancing from her to Samantha. The detective shook her head and he knew there was more.

And that he'd have to wait for answers.

“Have you vouched for Abrams's presence today?” he asked over the teenager's bent head.

“Yeah. He was in court all day.”

Maggie rocked forward, over the dog in her lap.

“Odd, isn't it? To have an attorney in court, pleading cases, when you know he's guilty of a heinous crime?” Clay watched the girl as he spoke.

She didn't seem to have heard him. No one else responded to his comment.

“Maggie?”

The girl's gaze was wary as she looked up. He had to get past that wariness. Earn her trust. He had a feeling he was going to need her. “What can you tell me about Kelly? Anything that strikes you?”

Her fingers still busy along the dog's back, she mumbled, “Kelly's addicted to pens and pencils.”

“What?”

“It's true.” Sam nodded, her pretty face pinched-looking. “Kel takes notes a lot. And when she's not writing, she's usually chewing on a pen or a pencil. It's just…I don't know. It's just Kelly.”

“What else? Who does she spend her free time with? Has she been seeing anyone?”

“She spends her time helping other people,” Maggie explained earnestly. The girl rattled off the volunteer work and other activities Scott Levin had already told him about.

“And as far as I know, she hasn't had a real date in years,” Samantha said.

“Either of you know of anyone in town who had a problem with her? Any quarrels? A neighbor, maybe?”

“With Kelly?” Samantha asked. “Not unless it has something to do with one of her cases, and I don't know much about them. Although there was one that was a big deal about six months ago. I already told Agent Levin about it. The guy was a bigamist….”

“Right.” Clay referred back to his notes. “James Todd. He was recently sentenced to prison on domestic abuse charges.”

“Yeah, but he'd been charged with murder. Of his second wife. The defense convinced the jury it was a suicide.”

“Is that what Kelly thought?”

“I have no idea. We rarely discuss her cases. I'm not even sure what part she played in it. I just know she testified in court.”

“But you're sure this Todd guy is still locked up?”

“Positive,” Samantha said. “I checked myself. This afternoon.”

Clay wasn't surprised. The woman was thorough. The kind of agent he liked to have on his team.

“There's been no report of any ransom call. Have you checked her home phone?” he asked.

“Yes, and we had it forwarded over here.”

“I'll get someone to put a tap on the line, just in case.” Sam nodded.

“What about her mood?” He looked over at Maggie. “Did she seem upset about anything?”

“No. Just…maybe…” The child looked down.

“Maybe what?”

“I think she worries about me.” The girl looked up at him. “But I swear I'm not doing anything wrong. I had nothing to do with this.”

Until that second Clay hadn't thought she had.

“Anyone else you can think of who'd want Ms. Chapman out of the way?” he asked the two adults sitting across from him, anxious to get back to JoAnne. To find out what was in the Chapman files.

Maggie Winston's in particular.

“No.” Samantha shook her head. “Like I told you, she's the one everyone goes to for help.”

Great. He had a possible missing saint who ate pencils.

And pissed off criminals for a living.

 

Clay got a call from Barry before he'd even started his department-issue black sedan. “We've got something,” the agent said, his voice terse.

“What?” Sitting on the drive on the Evans farm, Clay stared at barns and fields, but imagined a path paved with black asphalt, preparing for the worst.

“Willie caught her scent at the parking lot Detective Jones reported as the one Dr. Chapman used most frequently. He followed it a good ways up the path—maybe
a ten-minute skate depending on how fast she was going.” Willie had been with the agency a couple of years. He was the best. “And?”

“Then nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“She just disappeared, boss. One minute Willie's on her and then he loses the scent.”

“Chapman turned around and went back to her car.”

“Maybe, but why go all the way out there and just skate for a few minutes?”

She could have remembered something she had to do. Or found the day too cold for skating. The could-haves were innumerable. But the fact that she was missing made the short skating time suspect.

“I assume Willie checked the path going from the car in the opposite direction?”

“Yeah. He didn't find anything.”

They had to come up with that car. Period.

 

Without putting down his cell after disconnecting with Barry, Clay speed-dialed JoAnne.

“Did you get anything out of the receptionist?”

“Besides the fact that our missing person can't be without a pen or pencil?”

“Yeah, besides that.”

“Deb seems truly fond of her boss—and had no problem taking me to the office and turning over Chapman's files. Deb thinks there could be a lot of possible suspects there.”

“So you've got the files?”

“I'm on my way home with them now.”

“Great bedtime reading.”

“Looking at the crates in my backseat, I have a feeling I'm not going to be getting any sleep tonight.”

Clay knew that feeling all too well.

 

Kelly Chapman's credit cards were not used on Friday. Her Blue Dodge Nitro turned up in Knoxville, Tennessee, Friday night. Clay was at home, in sweats and no shirt, having just padded in from a shower. He was sitting at his kitchen table, poring through electronic phone records, credit card receipts and bank statements when he got the call from the Tennessee state police at around ten.

Knoxville—five hours away.

“It was left in a mall parking lot.”

“Any obvious indicators?” He ran his hand through hair that probably should've been cut weeks ago. But that would probably wait weeks more.

“It's in good shape. No obvious dents or scratches. It's clean inside. Maybe too clean.”

“In what way?”

“Not so much as a gum wrapper, leaf or spot of dirt on the floor. Nothing personal. Not even in the console.”

“Her purse wasn't there? What about the trunk?”

“No purse. And other than a spare tire and jack, the trunk is clean.”

“How about writing implements? Any pens or pencils?”

“Nope. Nothing.”

Which was the first real indication to Clay—who, during his fifteen years in the business, had seen just about everything—that Ms. Chapman's disappearance involved foul play.

“No blood anywhere?”

“Not that we could see. You want us to take the car in? Have it gone over?”

Ordinarily, he'd insist it wait until he got there. Sometimes the turn of the wheel was a clue.

But he was five hours away. Five hours that could make the difference between life and death.

“Please. But make sure you take pictures first. Inside and out. A lot of them. Too many of them.”

“Yes, sir,” the trooper replied.

And Clay rang off, already on his way to get dressed. If he left now, he could be in Knoxville in time to catch a couple hours' sleep before sunup.

Day
December 2010

I
have to keep track of time. That thought reverberated. Over and over. I didn't want to open my eyes. I couldn't remember why, but I knew I didn't. I didn't want to move, either.

Something hard was digging into my rib. I tried to adjust my position enough to relieve the pressure and came in full contact with the rocky cement bed upon which I lay.

And then I remembered. I was in captivity.

Slowly, so if someone was staring at me they wouldn't notice, I opened one eye slightly.

And saw a sliver of light coming in from outside.

I'd passed at least one night here.

That realization changed everything. I didn't have to endure for just a few hours. The police, my friends—they would've known I was gone a long time ago and hadn't been able to find me.

Carefully, through my lashes, I took in my surroundings, such as they were. As soon as I was able to deter mine that there was no one directly in view, I opened my eyes fully.

The light wasn't much. A beacon in the distance? Light at the end of the tunnel?

Was I in the same place I'd been in the last time I was awake? And the time before that?

I had no idea.

It didn't smell like the bike path, though. There was a sweet odor, easily distinguishable even in the cold. And it
was
cold.

My head still hurt, the pain sharp, but my thoughts seemed clearer. I wasn't as tired.

Had I been drugged? Hit on the head? Both?

Was that why I couldn't stay awake?

I didn't know if I'd been out for hours or days. It must have been at least eighteen hours, I figured, based on the fact that I'd gone skating on Friday morning and now it was a different day.

Okay, so I had to keep track of time. Keep my mind working.

And I had to move. I was cold. But not as cold as I'd been the day before. Thank God I'd worn my hat under my helmet to go skating. Hats helped stave off hypothermia.

But where was my helmet?

Although the pain was excruciating at first, I moved my feet. They were heavy and for a second I panicked, my heart thudding heavily. And then I remembered that I still had my skates on. They'd helped keep me warm, too.

And I was in some kind of enclosure. A natural one, from what I could tell. A cave, maybe. There were some pretty famous caves about thirteen miles from town. And I remember, when we toured them as kids, they'd told us that the temperature always stayed around fifty-five degrees. No matter what time of year it was. I hoped I was in a cave. I'd be protected from the worst of December's cold.

December. I knew the month.

And I knew one day had passed. So…this was Day Two.

That recognition felt good. Positive. I was in control of something.

I was so stiff it hurt to breathe, but I couldn't afford to worry about pain anymore. Or let it stop me.

I had to get up. See if I was being watched and what to do about it if I was. I had to get out. Find something to eat and drink. Somehow. I had to pee again.

And then I could worry about where I was. How I'd come to be there. Who'd brought me. What plans my captors had for me.

And figure out how I could thwart those plans.

One thing was becoming abundantly clear—if I was going to live, I'd have to save myself. No one had found me.

I lifted my head. I could tell that I was alone in my prison. Some kind of cave but not entirely in its natural state. There was cement on the floor. And the opening—indicated by the glimmer of light in the distance—was mostly blocked.

My shoulders, twisted behind me, throbbed. But my hands had gone numb. I welcomed the lack of pain even as I worried about my circulation. About losing the use of my fingers and toes.

I tried to sit up and was consumed by a wave of nausea. Waiting, holding myself suspended, I made up my mind that I was not going to lie back down.

I was not going to
die
lying down.

With that thought pushing me, I shifted my weight and shifted again. Several minutes later I was on my butt, leaning against a rock wall.

At which point I did the only thing I could.

I started to cry.

 

“An Ohio psychologist is missing this morning.”

The man standing at the old, greasy, two-burner stove frying bacon turned toward the small television set.

“Kelly Chapman left her office in Chandler, Ohio, to go in-line skating yesterday and hasn't been seen or heard from since.”

The bacon sizzled, cracked, spitting grease over his arm. The man noticed, but didn't care, his attention focused one hundred percent on the local news.

“The vehicle she was driving, a 2009 dark blue Dodge Nitro, was found last night here in Knoxville….”

The man stared at the picture on the screen.

His whole wasted life, this hole he lived in, the booze, it was all because of her.

“If anyone has seen this woman, or saw the vehicle yesterday, or knows anything about the whereabouts of Kelly Chapman, please call the number on your screen.”

He glanced at the number. He wasn't going to call. He wasn't stupid.

“The FBI and Chandler police are offering a ten thousand dollar reward to anyone with information….”

So she was worth that much. He wasn't surprised.

Putting the spraying pan on the back burner, the man grabbed the control that had come with the free box the government had offered the public when the national television signals had gone to digital. He could get twice the channels now.

Which meant there'd be more news.

He wanted to hear it all. From every source. Every opinion. Every supposition. He'd stay a step ahead of them. Show every one of those legal eagles just how much power he had.

He'd show her. No more begging.

Yeah, he had a plan. His ship was finally coming in.

But first, he needed to eat. He took a long, gratifying swig of the beer he'd opened as soon as he'd stumbled out of bed.

A man had to keep his strength up.

Rubbing the gut protruding from the tails of a flannel shirt he'd found in someone's trash a couple of years ago—a perfectly good shirt except for the fact that it had been a size too small even then—the man grinned, his blackened and broken teeth a sign of his past.

A sign that didn't matter anymore. He was looking forward to the coming days. And a future that was shining bright.

 

The SUV gave him nothing. Not one goddamned thing. No fingerprints. No blood. Not even a smudge of dirt.

Whatever had been there was now gone.

Clay needed the girl. Maggie. Needed to know if Kelly Chapman was obsessive about keeping her vehicle spotless or if the evidence he was looking at had been tainted—in this case, wiped clean.

He wasn't sure the kid was going to help him. She'd seemed unusually calm about the disappearance of her foster parent.

But sometimes kids in the system learned young not to care too much about anything.

He understood that. You did what you had to do.

Unless you chose not to.

“Jones.” The detective answered his call on the first ring.

“I need to speak with the girl,” Clay said, not bothering to waste time with pleasantries. If Samantha Jones knew something she would've called.

He'd been on the road most of the night. Asleep in his car for the rest of it. He was no closer to finding his victim. And he wasn't in a great mood.

“Yes, sir, one moment. She's still in bed. I'll get her.”

So what if it was before eight on a Saturday morning? The kid had all day to sleep.

“Hello?” Maggie Winston didn't sound as though she'd been sleeping.

“Maggie? This is Agent Thatcher.”

“I know. Did you find Kelly?”

The hope in the girl's voice struck him. In places he didn't like to feel. Which meant Clay had to adjust his thinking.

He was oddly glad to know the kid cared.

Like it mattered to him that this psychologist was important to the people in her life. That she had people who loved her.

Of course she did. Everyone did. If you looked hard enough.

“No, not yet, but we're getting closer.” He gave the rote answer. Even if they never found her, they were one day closer to that conclusion. “I need to ask you some more questions if you don't mind.”

“She's on speakerphone, Agent Thatcher. Go ahead,”

Detective Jones said.

“Maggie, when was the last time you were in Ms. Chapman's car?”

“Yesterday morning.” The girl's answer was quick. Certain. Clay nodded, accepting it as truth. “She came by the bus stop after I left the house and gave me a ride to school.”

“Why didn't she just take you from home?”

“I don't know. I guess she got ready sooner than she thought she would. Or else got a call and had to go in early.”

“Do you remember anything in particular about the interior of the car?”

“It's gray. With leather seats. They have heat controls. I didn't turn mine on. Kelly turned hers on….”

He was beginning to like this kid.

“What about things in the car?” he asked more specifically. “Trash, or maybe a smudge on the carpet?”

“She keeps it really clean,” Maggie said. “I remember her briefcase. And her purse. She moved them for me to sit down. And there's the little license-plate luggage tags. She keeps them in the tray on the console. They're from Michigan. She bought them when we were up there for her work. They have our names on them.”

“When were you in Michigan?”

“In October.”

“And do you know anything about the job she was there to do?”

“No. Just that she interviewed some guy. But I met the attorney who hired her. We were supposed to stay with her but her office got broken into, so we stayed at a bed and breakfast.”

The girl wanted to help. That meant a lot in his book.

“Do you remember the attorney's name?”

“Erin Morgan.”

“Good. That's good,” he said, scribbling in the pocketsize notebook he never dressed without.

“Anything else you can tell me about the car?”

“Just the little beanie dog she keeps on the dash.”

“What does it look like?”

“Two or three inches tall, I guess. Light beige with a brown spot. Its ears are kind of cockeyed and it has this pathetic expression.”

The girl had obviously spent some time noticing the stuffed toy.

“Do you know if the dog had any special significance?”

“No.”

“If you think of anything else, have Detective Jones give me a call, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And, Maggie?”

“Yeah?”

“You've helped a lot. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

He had to hang up. To check on ten things at once. Continue the search. “Don't worry. We're going to find her,” he said instead.

“I hope so.” The teenager's voice broke.

“You can count on it,” he said. And then, shaking his head, clicked off his phone. He'd broken one of his cardinal rules. He never gave his word unless he knew he could keep it.