by Anne Frasier
“I don’t need anything.”
“You need a car.”
“I don’t know where all of his wealth came from. I’m sure some of it’s blood money.” But she liked Elliot’s idea of philanthropy. She’d think about it. “Do you feel like a victim?”
“I had a good life. Spoiled, really.”
What if the woman he knew as his mother wasn’t really his mother? What if Elliot was the product of one of her father’s early abductions? What if Elliot was really the son of someone his father had held hostage at his cabin in northern Minnesota? It would explain the money all those years. Paid to a woman to take care of him. Had Elliot ever thought about that?
They knew Octavia had gotten pregnant in captivity. She’d miscarried, but had any of the other captives given birth? If so, what had happened to those babies? Phillip Schilling wasn’t known for having girlfriends or relationships. His “girlfriends” were his captives. So Elliot’s story didn’t fit with what she knew of her father.
He started crying. Quiet sobs that shook his shoulders as he buried his face in his hands. She sat down beside him and patted his shoulder lightly, awkwardly, not knowing if it brought him any comfort.
Hours ago she didn’t have any close relatives. Now she had a brother she wasn’t even sure she wanted.
CHAPTER 47
Child Protection Services came to take the boy away, and there was nothing Jude could do about it. Another storm was coming, and they wanted to move him before it hit.
“It’s best for the child,” Kim Tharp told her. At least the welfare worker had been to Jude’s apartment before, so there would be some consistency. The boy didn’t have to deal with a complete stranger again.
Jude knelt in front of him and zipped his jacket. Then she handed him his red knit cap, and he put it on. Red mittens with an orange cat on them were next. “Roof Cat.” He pointed in delight. Pretty cute.
Her phone vibrated, and she pulled it from the pocket of her jeans. A text from Elliot.
I’ll be back soon. I want to tell him good-bye.
Weird getting a communication from him, knowing what she now knew and being in the early stages of processing the information. She tucked her phone away and handed the boy the backpack. It contained his stuffed animals and flannel pajamas with pictures of Thomas the Tank Engine on them, a few pairs of socks and underwear, a hairbrush, toothpaste, and a toothbrush.
“Where’s Jenny Hill?” she asked, standing back up. They’d come together before.
“Under the weather.”
“I thought she’d be here. Didn’t she file the initial report?”
“Yes, but we all signed off on it.”
“I think the decision was made too quickly,” Jude told her.
“We’re the specialists.” The woman’s face softened. “I know it can be hard to let these children go. We get attached. But I’m sure you understand that a child is better off with a relative, preferably his mother or father, if at all possible. We’ll be there to give Ms. Perkins the support she needs this time.”
“I’d like to follow up on the case. Maybe visit in a couple of days.” The woman looked uncomfortable, and Jude continued, “Unofficially of course.”
“We discourage that kind of interaction.” She glanced at the boy, lowering her voice, leaning closer to Jude. “A clean break is best. Bonding does sometimes happen between a placement and foster families, but we want the child to re-form the bond with the mother.”
“When will you follow up?”
“We’ll call first thing tomorrow.”
“A phone call?”
“Yes.”
“And the next day?”
“We’ll give it a few days, then call again.”
“When will you actually go there? To the home?”
“Ms. Hill will be monitoring that. We typically schedule those visits two weeks out. It gives them enough time to settle into a routine. In that way, guards are down, and what we find is a truer picture of the situation.”
Jude didn’t like the sound of that. She planned to give Jenny Hill a call and encourage her to visit again very soon. She also wanted to get some reassurance as to why the young woman thought the house was a safe environment for the boy when he’d been abused. Welfare services often got a bad rap. Sometimes it was deserving, and sometimes not. She wanted to make sure this case didn’t end up a deserving one.
“You know what happened with his foster family,” the woman said. “Before we moved to return him to his mother, we tried to find another place for him. Everybody is reluctant to step forward. Our foster families all know each other and communicate.” She glanced over her shoulder again. “People were scared of him. We don’t really have a lot of options.”
“I’m an option. I think you’re rushing this. I know he’s just one of hundreds of cases, but—”
“You work full-time. You work odd hours.”
“I have someone in the building who takes care of him when I can’t.”
“Someone who has not been approved by us.”
Jude thought of Elliot’s deceit and couldn’t really argue. In truth, he should never have watched the boy to begin with.
“And even though you’re a detective, you haven’t been either. We made an exception since you’re an officer, but that could end up being a problem for us, especially if Ms. Perkins were to file a complaint.”
Was that one of the reasons behind their decision? She hoped not.
“We should go.”
Elliot hadn’t arrived. Jude wanted to give the boy a hug, but she tamped down the impulse. The woman was right. It was best not to reinforce bonds that would go nowhere and had no meaning to him.
They left.
She did not walk them downstairs. She did not watch from her apartment door, but she did watch from her bedroom window. Elliot appeared, running, then crouched in front of the boy, pulling him into his arms. Moments later, Jude heard the lobby door slam. She was glad he’d made it in time. Under all his deception, there was no denying Elliot’s good qualities.
Kim helped the boy into the car. She smiled and fastened his seat belt. Was he crying? Jude hoped not.
The car door closed. As the caseworker circled the vehicle to get in the driver’s seat, the child looked up. Jude wasn’t sure if he could see her, but she held up her hand in farewell.
CHAPTER 48
As Jude drove south out of Minneapolis, she wished for the second or third or fourth time that she’d gotten a loan and a better vehicle. With a better heater. Because she already had a motorcycle she much preferred to ride, she hadn’t wanted to spend much money on the car. Three thousand dollars, everything left from the retirement fund she’d cashed in a short time ago.
The car’s vents blasted cold air, and Jude was long past feeling her feet. Even though the heater was failing, the outdoor temperature gauge seemed to be working. It was near the zero mark again, three thirty in the afternoon. Night would arrive in about an hour, and temps would continue to plummet.
Jude had tried to contact Jenny Hill with no luck, then had given it six hours, figuring that should be enough time for them to get the boy settled. She hadn’t told Uriah where she was going, because she didn’t want him to be complicit. And she hadn’t wanted him to try to talk her out of it.
Using her phone’s GPS, she found the farmhouse easily.
The landscape and remoteness were no surprise. Before leaving work, she’d looked it up on Google Maps and had been rewarded with a satellite view of a two-story white home, along with a large red barn and several outbuildings. The photo had been old, possibly taken at a time when life for Nanette Perkins had been better. At least a lot greener. Trees had their leaves, and corn in the fields had tassels. A van in front of the house that wasn’t a recent model.
The long unpaved road stretched to a house with a rural emergency number—a series of digits used by fire and police to pinpoint houses that might otherwise be hard to find. The lane had been plowe
d recently. Both the number and the plowing were good signs—in case help for either occupant was needed. Jude wasn’t sure if Ms. Perkins even had a car anymore, and wasn’t sure she could drive anyway.
Past snow had built up on each side of the road, over six feet high in places. The scene was reminiscent of an old black-and-white photo Jude recalled seeing as a child—a Minnesota blizzard with snow that had been carved, creating deep white canyons for a single row of cars to squeeze through. When the temperatures stayed low, even the warmth of the sun couldn’t get rid of it.
The house had a collapsing picket fence that was more gray than white, and more dilapidated yard décor than anything that served a purpose. It seemed to mark the end of the road and the beginning of the yard. It wasn’t an enclosure and was open on both ends. A packed-down snow path cut around one side of the fence. At the end of the path was a snowmobile. Maybe that’s how Perkins was getting around.
On one side, off what looked like the kitchen, was an awkward-looking addition, a room with a low roof and no windows. It seemed more like a livestock-confinement shed than a house, and that’s quite possibly what it had been at one time.
Jude turned off the ignition and sat a moment, watching the house, absorbing minute details. Curtains were closed, and shades pulled. Not unusual this time of the year. Anything to keep out the cold. Slivers of light cut around the shades, indicating occupancy.
Jude got out of the car and walked to the house. Perkins answered her knock, no attempt to hide her surprise at the unexpected visit, but she wasn’t unwelcoming. Jude hadn’t seen her since the hospital, when she’d still been on pain medication. She looked better, younger. Her face even had a glow, the kind of glow winter brought. Rosy cheeks from cold and heat. But her injured leg was in a black plastic cast, and she was leaning heavily on a metal walker.
Behind her, the kitchen looked cheerful, no dishes in the sink, no food on the laminated countertops, and a tablecloth so new the folds were still evident. Obviously staged for the social worker. Now Jude more fully understood the advantage of waiting. This would not give a person the true take on the situation. And yet, Jude didn’t at all like that the boy was back here, no matter how cozy the place appeared.
“You look like you’re freezing.”
“My heater’s not working well.”
“Come on in and sit down by the woodstove.”
Jude stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “I’m not planning on staying.” She hated lying; she wasn’t a liar, but she pulled one out. “I was in the area and thought I’d drop this off.” She held up a Buzz Lightyear toy. “I forgot to put it in his bag this morning.”
Perkins sat in an overstuffed chair, collapsing into it rather than a slow decline, her foot propped in front of her. The white cotton wrap around her toes had turned black.
The television screen emitted a weak glow, and Jude could hear faint popping. It had just been turned off; maybe Perkins had heard her pull up.
“Sit down.”
Jude wanted to get a better feel of the situation. She started to kick off her boots.
“Don’t worry about that.”
Jude left them on and walked across the linoleum of the kitchen to join the woman in the living room. Two walls were wood paneled; two were white. The shiny kind of paint that made Jude uncomfortable because it showed every flaw. Two dark hallways: one probably led to bedrooms and bathroom; the other might have gone to the addition. A set of stairs to the second floor. The big question: Where was the boy?
Jude loosened her scarf. The temperature in the living room must have been close to eighty. Too hot, but it felt nice for the moment. The only sign of the child was his backpack in the middle of the couch. Judging from the bulky shape, it looked as if very little had been removed.
Perkins noticed where Jude’s attention was aimed and explained, “He was so tired when he got here. He’s napping.”
He liked to nap with his stuffed animals.
Without asking for an okay, Jude sat on the couch and unzipped the pack. It hadn’t been opened. Everything was just the way she’d arranged it at her apartment. “He might want these.” She pulled out the cat and panda.
Perkins leaned her chin against her hand, looking amused. “You really want to see him, don’t you?”
Jude shrugged as if it wasn’t important. “I wouldn’t mind. I won’t wake him up. I’ll put these in bed with him, but I’ll be quiet.”
“Go ahead. Take a peek.” Perkins pointed toward a short hallway off the kitchen. “He’s in the addition.”
Jude kept her expression neutral even though the strangeness of the situation was growing fast.
“It’ll put your mind at ease.” Perkins grabbed her walker with both hands and levered herself up, almost tipping over, then steadying herself. “Stupid thing,” she muttered. “I couldn’t afford one of those knee trikes. You go on, I’ll catch up.”
Jude felt for the holster at her waist. She fake coughed and unsnapped it at the same time, covering the sound. She didn’t like buildings with secrets or narrow hallways or windowless walls. Cement floor beneath her feet, the clumping of the walker behind her. But beneath that noise, Jude caught a faint sound. A child crying.
The boy was stoic. It happened with abused children. And abused adults, so for him to cry . . . She paused and turned. “You don’t need to come. I’ll get him and bring him to the living room.”
Perkins leaned heavily on the walker.
The crying continued.
At the end of the hall, Jude turned the knob and opened the door.
By this point, she knew better than to expect the traditional scene of a child in a sweet little bed. But she wasn’t prepared for the reality of the narrow barrack-looking space with cots lining one wall, two electric heaters running, a propane heater silent, the room so cold she could see her breath.
And a dog kennel with the boy inside. Clinging to the bars, his mouth open wide, tears streaming down his cheeks. Jude ran to him, dropping to her knees in front of the cage. She felt many things: anger, sorrow, disgust, but the predominant emotion was relief at finding him hopefully unharmed. Upon seeing her, he reached up with both hands, imploring her to pick him up.
Or so she thought until he spoke. “Nana.”
Jude ducked, pulling her gun from her holster at the same time. Too late. She’d allowed herself to be distracted by her concern for the boy. A blow to the side of the head sent her crashing to the floor. Her weapon flew from her hand and spun across the concrete.
“He got spoiled the short time he was with you,” Perkins said with a chuckle. “You can’t spoil kids. You’ve gotta be tough, teach ’em to be tough. It’s hard, but they have to learn for their own good. Life isn’t easy. I love him. Everything I’ve done has been because I love him. He’s a sweet boy, too sweet for this world. And it’s not as bad as it looks. He likes it in there.”
Jude rolled, intending to kick the woman’s legs out from under her. Before she could complete the maneuver, a sharp, breath-stealing pain tore through her shoulder. Perkins loomed over her with a knife. More stabs. A few feet away, the boy was screaming. Hands grabbed the front of her coat, followed by the lifting and pounding of Jude’s head against the floor. She let out a choking gurgle, and lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 49
Nan watched and waited for the detective to die. She thought about stabbing her again to be done with it, but that would take some work, and Nan wasn’t feeling so great. The exertion had done a number on her and caused her leg to throb. She was breathing hard, and her heart was pounding like a bass drum. No chest or arm pain, so she was probably okay.
The detective finally stopped making noise.
Nan shuffled over, picked up the stuffed animals that had been dropped during the scuffle, and wiped them across her sweatpants. Toys still sticky, she shoved them through the bars of the cage at the boy. He grabbed and hugged them to himself. It was then she noticed the detective’s blood spatter o
n his face. She considered reaching through the bars and wiping it off, but that seemed like too much work right now.
Killed a detective. So stupid, but she’d been left no choice. Nan tested her hand, fingers spread, palm down. Bloody, but steady. That surprised her, given the way she was shaking inside. Couldn’t she just catch a damn break? What a string of bad luck, from the bodies to the kid to the social worker, and now this.
She dug through the detective’s coat pockets until she found a cell phone. Breathing hard, head roaring, black spots seeping into her vision while nausea and a cold sweat rushed over her, she straightened and tried to blink the spots away. She’d passed out a few times in her life and knew what was coming. Not wanting to collapse on the concrete, in the blood, she dropped to a cot and bent forward, waiting for the faintness to pass.
How much time did she have before someone started looking for Fontaine? Had she told anybody she was coming here? And what about the boy? This was all his fault.
Feeling a little better, the nausea and sweating over, she got down to business and smashed the detective’s phone and stuck her car keys in her pocket.
After clumping to the main house, she dressed for outdoors—winter boots, knit cap, heavy gloves. In the bathroom, she ripped down the new shower curtain. It was white with yellow butterflies, just purchased to replace the last one. Back in the holding room, the boy was asleep in the kennel with his stuffed animals. Not bothering to strip the body this time since she needed to hurry and planned to finally take off for real, she got to work. Panting, she managed to roughly wrap the detective’s body, securing it with duct tape, running out before she’d adequately bundled it. Then, walking backward, favoring her good leg, she dragged the body across the floor, pleased to see she was leaving very little blood behind. Like before, the task got easier when she hit the snow.