“Oh no, dear.” Alma stepped forward, nudging Tate with her hip, and took the valise from her hand. “I’m not so old that I can’t pull my own weight.” And indeed, she hefted the large piece of Samsonite as if it weighed nothing at all.
“If you’re sure –”
“I’m sure.”
Okay then. “Well, why don’t you follow me to the office? We’ll get the paperwork taken care of and then I’ll show you to your room.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, Tate’s cell phone rang in her pocket. She would have ignored it except for the fact that she hadn’t heard from Clay since that morning. Considering the awkward circumstances, and the fact that he’d all but burned a hole in the floor in his hurry to leave, she couldn’t help but feel the pinch of worry that he’d decided this gig wasn’t for him. So quietly slipping the phone from her pocket, she couldn’t stop the small smile when she saw his number.
Seeing her daughter’s expression, Maggie grasped Alma’s elbow. “Tate, why don’t you take that call, and I’ll go ahead and get Ms. Walker settled.”
“Excuse me,” Tate apologized to their guest, and moved toward the privacy of the parlor. “But this is a call I’ve been waiting for all day.” And how pathetic was that? She felt worse than a lovesick teenager.
Closing the doors behind her, she walked over toward the settee, which seemed rather ironic as that was where she and Clay had first…
Okay. Not good. She chose a wingback chair instead.
“Hello?”
“Tate?” Clay’s voice crackled.
“Where are you?” she asked automatically. “You’re not getting very good reception.”
“…Beaufort… storm knocked out… tower. I’ve been trying to call you… hours. This is the first… get through.”
It was completely garbled, but she gathered that he’d gone to Beaufort, and a storm had knocked out a cell tower. And – hip, hip hooray! – he had a good reason for not calling. Not that she’d been worried, or anything.
“What are you doing in Beaufort?” she wondered, as that town was more than an hour south of Charleston.
“There’s been… development. …going to be here awhile. It’s going… late when I get in. …wondering if you’d prefer… to Justin’s.”
Tate held her breath. He was calling to tell her he was going to be late coming home. That was sweet. God, that was sweet. “You’re welcome to stay here. No, scratch that. I would like for you to stay here. Love for you to stay here. I’ve gotten kind of used to you hogging all the covers.”
His laughter was clear on the other end of the line. “I guess if you want the covers, you’ll have to sleep on top of me.”
Funny that that statement was the only one that came out intact.
“I’ll be awake until about eleven, but if you get in past that I’ll leave the alarm off and the back door key under the mat.”
“No!” Their connection had grown stronger. And the note of censure in his voice was perfectly clear. “Under the mat is burglar code for easy targets live here. Engage the alarm, give me the code, and I’ll let myself in. And remind me that we need to talk about security.”
Rolling her eyes, Tate realized this was a downside she hadn’t foreseen. “I guess you’re going to use some of your FBI voodoo to open the door?”
“I never give away my secrets. I have to go, sugar, but I’ll try to make it back before you’re asleep. If not, I’ll be the strange man climbing into your bed.”
Tate laughed, a warm sound filled with happiness. “And I’ll be the woman wallowing in the temporary luxury of covers. Anyway, take care and I’ll see you tonight.”
CLAY snapped his phone shut with a click, thinking that a little blanket tug-of-war sounded like a damn good idea.
Winner gets naked.
Or maybe the loser gets naked.
Hell, they should both get naked and forgo the blankets altogether. They’d been generating enough body heat the past couple of nights to incite some kind of nuclear reaction anyway, so nighttime chills shouldn’t even be a factor.
Grinning, he realized that having Tate waiting for him in bed made the end of the work day a hundred times more appealing than it ever had been before.
He turned to find Kim, standing way too far inside his personal space. She grinned.
“So am I ever going to get to meet this woman who’s put a smile on your ugly mug?”
“Now why would I want to scare her like that?” He slid his phone into his pocket. “Was there some specific reason you’re hovering, or just your all-around need to be obnoxious?”
She pulled a handkerchief out of the inside pocket of her jacket – dear, sweet Lord, the woman actually carried a handkerchief – and wiped the delicate sheen of sweat that had dared to gather on her brow.
He, meanwhile, stood by looking like he’d run under somebody’s sprinklers.
“They’re getting ready to start bagging and tagging the evidence.” She gestured over her shoulder toward the open apartment door behind her. “Is there anything else you wanted to look at again before they take it away?”
Clay shook his head. The evidence amounted to jack, because even though the weightlifting pills and powders, impressive collection of workout equipment, equally impressive but not so innocent collection of homemade pornography, fake ID’s, professional level costuming equipment, bottles of Insta-Tan, etcetera, etcetera, told them a great deal about the sex offender known as William Wayne, the fact was that William Wayne was dead.
And Clay hadn’t seen one shred of evidence which suggested the man had any type of association, professional or otherwise, with anyone else. Either the man they were searching for had come and swept the apartment prior to staging his accomplice’s suicide, or their normal protocol involved living completely separate from one another.
Which was probably the case. The man who’d obviously engineered this enterprise was too smart to spend more time in the albino’s presence than he had to, and he was probably adamant about circumspection in behavior.
Until today.
And now, joy of joys, Clay and the other law officers who’d drawn the short stick that was this case, got to sit through several hours of thoroughly stomach-turning porn, in the hopes that they might A.) Be able to identify some of the girls shown on the tapes, or B.) Find any clues which might help lead them to the dead man’s partner.
“Tell ‘em to go ahead with whatever they need to do. I’ve seen enough.” And wasn’t that the truth.
Kim disappeared through the door, and Clay leaned against the railing, watching the colors of impending sunset dance across the broad expanse of sky over Beaufort Bay. The apartment which William Wayne had inhabited for the past few months was one of four in an elegant old building, a shining example of antebellum architecture from the city’s pre-Civil War heyday.
A graceful collection of curved balustrades, heavy masonry, tabby foundation and waved glass windows, the building was surrounded by both ancient oaks and towering palmettos, and offered stunning views of the water over which it stood watch.
Sailboats, wings unfurled, glided past other pleasure craft on the silent waters, which lapped gently along the seawall in undulating waves. A salt breeze blew in periodically, carrying the scents of diesel and brine, breaking the stillness of the air which hung thick and damp after the earlier storm. Lingering raindrops fell from the fronds of the nearby palmettos in a steady, rhythmic patter. A lone blue heron, unfurled wings more graceful than the sailboats’, soared high and far into the heavy cover of dusk.
It was too beautiful a view for a degenerate.
Sighing, Clay loosened his tie from his sweat-dampened collar, trying to catch some of the cooling whisper of air as it sighed past. He was hot, tired and disgusted. More than ever, he’d like to pack it in and call it a day.
But there was a monster still out there somewhere, who saw dollar signs in a young girl’s innocence.
And since he had to get into the forb
idden corners in the mind of that monster, he, like evil, couldn’t sleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
JR double-checked the contents of his grandmother’s valise, making sure he had everything he needed. The chloroform would suffice until the stronger drug in the syringe could take effect, and he stuffed both into the deep pockets of his housecoat.
The padding he wore slicked his stomach with sweat, and the fake skin on his face and arms itched. But these were minor inconveniences, considering the end goal. He comforted himself with the fact that this was the last time he’d ever have to assume the old bitch’s persona.
Of course, it was also the last time he’d be able to walk about publicly as JR Walker.
It wouldn’t take long, after he’d done what he’d come to do, for the police to run everyone who’d stayed at the Inn tonight. And even though he’d done all that he could to eradicate his trail, eventually the fuzz would get around to putting two and two together. Then they’d show up at his grandmother’s farm with a search warrant.
The place would be empty, but they’d find Billy Wayne’s blood on the floor and the walls, and inevitably they’d start a search for sweet little Alma’s grandson.
Of course, by that time he’d be long gone, with a completely new identity. Maybe this time he’d make his transformation a little more final with plastic surgery.
JR Walker, no more.
He’d move around for a while, lose himself in city after city. After the trail had gone cold and the search died off, he’d pick a nice spot and settle down.
Maybe get a dog.
Kids liked dogs.
He laughed lightly, thinking how perfect this whole thing had turned out. He’d jettisoned Billy Wayne, whom he’d been carrying like excess baggage for too many years, and he finally had the opportunity to mete out a little justice to Tate Hennessey.
He wondered how long it would take for her to figure it out.
She’d stood there, shaken his hand, and hadn’t had an inkling of who he was.
He had to admit there was a little thrill in that.
He unlocked the latches on the old piece of Samsonite, and studied the size of the space within the hard walls. She’d come awfully damn close to picking up the suitcase, and then the little bitch might have realized it was empty. And wouldn’t that have been an interesting situation? He could have played the crazy old lady card, but why make anyone suspicious before he had to?
He ran his hand around the inside of the case. It was solid, and air might be a problem after a while, but he wouldn’t allow enough time to pass for suffocation. He’d only gotten one brief glimpse of the kid, as he was being shepherded upstairs for bedtime, because Tate hovered over him like a mother hen. Not encouraged to mingle with the guests. Blah, blah, blah. Paranoid bitch, wasn’t she?
The boy looked like the mother, all dark hair and big green eyes.
And he was small enough to fit in the suitcase.
After milking the old lady – who was like most normal grandmas, and couldn’t pass up a chance to talk about her progeny – he’d discovered the kid’s name was Max.
Of course, it wouldn’t be Max for long.
Like JR, he’d have to undergo an identity change. And while it might be tricky at first, after a while he’d have the kid believing whatever he wanted him to. Kids his age were malleable. Vulnerable.
Naïve.
Soon, his mother would be no more than a bad memory. Especially after he told the kid she’d wanted him to be taken.
Oh yeah, he was familiar with the tactics.
A little brainwashing, a little love, a nifty little system of reward and punishment. A few months, maybe less, and the kid would be totally his.
He laughed again, this time a little louder. Whoever said revenge was sweet didn’t know the half of it.
CLAY fought a stomachache the entire way home.
It could have been the pound of grease he’d choked down several hours ago, in the form of a fried fish sandwich and homemade chips, dutifully chased by at least a gallon of sweet tea. It could have been the fact that Kim volunteered to drive, and her Mario Andretti-blindfolded-and-hopped-up-on-speed style of piloting brought an entirely new dimension to motion sickness.
Of course, more likely, it was the fact that he’d just spent the past three or four hours watching tape after tape of scared, young girls being assaulted in the worst possible way.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen that kind of thing before. But for some reason, watching William Wayne on tape – knowing that he’d seen the man with his own eyes, suspected that he was a predator, and hadn’t done a thing to stop Casey’s abduction from happening – made him feel like throwing up.
Oh sure, he understood, logically, that there was almost nothing he could have done. He had no reason to approach the man, no evidence to suggest he was anything more than your run-of-the-mill pervert. No possible way to foretell that he was going to all but snatch a girl from under his nose.
Almost literally under his nose.
Clay had been on the Ferris wheel with Max when that girl was taken.
It was like compounding what had happened in Topeka.
What the hell good was his degree, his extensive Bureau training, if kids continued to be victimized virtually in front of him and he couldn’t do a damn thing?
“You’re beating yourself up.”
Turning away from the darkened scenery flashing past his window, he slid a frown toward Kim.
“God, Clay, give yourself a break. You’re a damn good agent, but contrary to popular belief, you’re not exactly a psychic.”
He winced. She’d obviously been talking to Deputy Harding.
“There’s no way you could have known,” she continued, “that the man you saw at that carnival was involved in what we just watched. You did not fail. In fact, we’re damn lucky that you noticed his fishy behavior in the first place. If not, you wouldn’t have placed so much importance on Casey Rodriguez’s disappearance, and we wouldn’t be where we are now.”
“And where are we, exactly?” he asked mildly. “Our main suspect is dead, there’s no sign of the girl, and I still don’t have enough to go on to get a firm handle on his partner. I know he’s undergone a psychic break, and is more prone to taking chances, but I can’t say for sure whether he’s already fled the area. Obviously, the area near the Collier crime scene needs to be canvassed, since Wayne was probably taking her to some sort of holding spot when he accidentally killed her. But even if we find that place, it will probably be too little, too late. He’ll be gone, the girl will be gone – either sold or killed because she’s been so much trouble. That’s a very real possibility, you know. He’s going to want to punish everyone he holds responsible. He’s a big fan of passing the buck.”
“So we take what evidence we can gather, and follow the bastard’s trail.”
“A lot of good that does Casey Rodriguez.”
Kim’s deep blue eyes shone hot in the darkness. “This is one of the main reasons I wanted to come down here. I shouldn’t have to say this to you Clay, but you’ve been taking things way too personally. I know you feel bad about this girl, feel a certain amount of responsibility because you were there, but she’s only part of the big picture. William Wayne is dead, which means he won’t be hurting young girls any more. And I need you to stay in the game here, friend, because you’re one of the best agents I’ve ever worked with. I thought, at first, that you’d benefit from time away, but now I wonder if this case isn’t exactly what you needed. It’s hard, and it sucks, but you will get through it, and you’ll realize that life goes on. You’ll do the best you can, help rid society of another lowlife, and accept that it’s not up to you to singlehandedly save the world.” She pulled into the parking lot of her hotel. “Now please go home to your woman. Remind yourself of what you’ve done right. And tomorrow morning put your game face on, because we’re going to catch this bastard.”
Clay turned away from her to stare out a
t the parking lot. Kim was right. He knew she was right, and there was no doubt he deserved the verbal face-slap. There was no room in his line of work for this useless, pitiful moping.
And like she said, he should just go home to Tate, and remind himself of the goodness life had to offer.
“So I’ll pick you up same time tomorrow?” he asked, shifting back to face her.
“Sounds good.” She dropped a quick kiss on his cheek, and slipped out the driver’s side door. Tucking her jacket over her head to avoid the steadily increasing rain, she waggled her fingers and then disappeared into the hotel.
Clay played their conversation over in his mind as he drove through the rain-slicked streets. Kim had all but accused him of having a hero complex, which might have some basis in truth. He’d been a lifeguard through high school and on summer breaks during college, and had chosen both mental health and law enforcement as a profession.
And while helping one’s fellow man was a noteworthy aspiration, striving for superhero status was both unrealistic and self-defeating. No one was perfect, and no one could do it all. He’d just have to do his job to the utmost of his abilities, and rely on a force greater than himself to handle the rest.
And boy, the Man Upstairs must be having quite a laugh right now, he thought as he pulled in beside Tate’s car. He’d not only shown Clay a thing or two about humility and failure, but he’d also thrown love and hope into the mix. There was an old saying about doors closing and windows opening that pretty much summed up the situation. He felt like he was hitting an all-time professional low and an all-time personal high at exactly the same time.
Climbing out of his SUV, he started to run in out of the rain, but instead took a moment to look at the car seat strapped into the back of Tate’s Honda.
He’d been having some pretty mixed up feelings about the scope of the situation he was taking on, but as he stood there, rain flattening his hair against his head, he realized that at least part of his pleasure in coming back here tonight had as much to do with Max as with Max’s mama. He looked toward his own vehicle. Tried to picture that car seat there.
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